UCSB  HBRAfTY 
^  -  535^3 


SIP 


* 


LOVE  AID  MOIEY; 


AM 


EVERY-DAY   TALE 


AVTHOR   OF   "  NO   SENSE   LIKE   COMMOK   SENSE,"  "  VOfiK   AW» 
WAQES,"  "WHO   SHALL   BE   GREATEST,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW-YORK-: 
D.    A  P  P  L  E  T  O  N    &    C  0  M  P  A  N  Y . 

443    &    445    BROADWAY. 
18G3. 


CONTENTS. 

I.  Mrs.  Morland's  Arrival  -  .     .         1 

II.  What  Mrs.  Morland  heard  ok  her  Neighbours       8 


III.  Experiences  of  a  Gentle  Spirit    . 

IV.  A  Merry  Christmas  Day 
V.  A  return  in  kind         .         • 

VI.  Ebb  Tide 

VII.  A  Turn  in  the  Tide 
VIII.  A  Second   Christmas  Day 
IX.  The  False  Lote  and  the  True  Lovb 
X.  Parting  and  Meeting 
XI.  The  Old  friends  and  the  Old  Homb 
XIL  All's  VTkll  that  Ends  Well 


IG 

45 

60 

76 

89 

104 

121 

141 

148 

162 


LOVE    AND    MONEY. 


CHArXER  I. 


MRS.  MORLAND  S  ARRIVAL. 

**  Mrs.  Morland  is  come!"  exclaimed  Sarah  at 
Mr.  Barker's,  the  wine-merchant's,  rushing  into  th« 
parlour  where  her  mistress  was  sitting  at  work ; 
"  and  you  can  see  the  tea-things  set  out  in  Mr.  Mor- 
land's  parlour." 

Mrs.  Barker  started  up  and  looked  through  her 
window  towards  the  parlour-window  of  her  neigh- 
bour, but  the  blind  was  down,  and  nothing  more 
than  light  in  the  room  was  to  be  seen. 

"  Morland  has  just  brought  home  his  wife,"  said 
Mr.  Barker  himself,  coming  with  a  newspaper  in  his 
hand  ;  ''  the  chaise  has  just  driven  off." 

"  What  sort  of  person  did  she  look  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Barker,  eagerly. 

"  Like  most  other  folks,"  said  he,  sitting  down  to 
the  table,  and  turning  over  his  newspaper. 

"  Well,  but  was  she  tall  or  short ;  and  how  was 
she  dressed  ?"  still  questioned  she. 

"  Never  looked  out  to  see,"  returned  the  grocer ; 
"  what  is  Mr.  Morland  or  his  wife  to  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Barker  asked  no  more  questions,  for  zhe  saw 
that  her  husband  was  out  of  humour  ;  so  she  let  hisi 


2  MRS.  MORLAND  S  ARRIVAL. 

read  his  paper  undisturbedly,  and  began  to  make  tea, 
thinking  to  herself,  that,  when  the  shopman  came  in, 
she  would  ask  him,  for  no  doubt  he  had  looked  out ; 
and  then  she  began  to  regret  to  herself  that  that  dis- 
agreeable affair  about  Mr.  Crawley's  cat  had  occurred, 
which  had  made  not  only  Mr.  Crawley,  but  Mr. 
Morland  and  them  bad  neighbours,  for  the  Morlands 
were  sure  to  be  genteel  people ;  and,  after  all,  the  cat 
did  no  great  harm,  though  it  did  come  prowling 
about,  and  how  were  they  to  know  that  Mr.  Crawley 
had  given  it  to  Mr.  Morland ;  but,  after  all,  whether 
the  cat  belonged  to  Morland  or  Crawley,  it  was,  she 
must  at  the  moment  confess,  somewhat  unneigh- 
bourly to  lay  poisoned  meat  for  her. 

At  this  point  ]\Irs.  Barker's  thoughts  were  inter- 
rupted by  the  three  little  Barkers  rushing  in,  the 
youngest  roaring  with  all  his  might,  and  the  two 
elder  ones  speaking  at  the  very  highest  pitch  of  their 
voices ;  Tommy  accusing  Fred  of  having  knocked 
down  little  Harry,  and  Fred  protesting  that  it  was  all 
Tommy's  fault,  who  would  push  in  to  get  hold  of  the 
back  of  the  chaise  which  had  just  driven  away  from 
Mr.  Morland's.  The  shopman  was  sent  off  to  the 
apothecary's  for  a  pennyworth  of  plaister  to  mend 
Harry's  broken  forehead  with;  and  the  two  elder 
boys,  right  or  wrong,  had  a  psalm  of  twelve  verses 
given  them  to  learn,  to  keep  them  quiet,  which  set 
them  both  a-crying ;  and  poor  Mrs.  Barker,  who 
had  enough  to  do  in  scolding  the  two  elder,  and 
pacifying  the  youngest  boy,  who  was  her  favourite, 
gained  n  >  information  from  the  shopman  respecting 
the  newly-arrived  Mrs.  Morland. 

"  Mrs   Morland  is  come !"  said  Ann,  at  Mr.  Sop- 


MMS.   MORI.AND  g  ARRIVAL.  3 

•rorth's,  the  tea-dealer's,  on  the  other  side  of  Mr. 
Morland's,  as  she  took  in  the  kettle  of  boiling  water 
for  tea. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  1"  asked  Miss  Eliza  Sopworth, 
a  lively  brunette  of  two  or  three  and  twenty,  who 
was  her  brother's  housekeeper,  and  who  had  invited 
that  evening  Mary  Wheeler^  the  pretty  niece  of  her 
brother's  landlord,  Mr.  Crawley,  to  take  tea  with 
her ;  "  have  you  seen  her ;  and  is  she  nandsome  ?" 

Ann  could  not  exactly  tell  whether  she  was  hand- 
some or  not,  but  she  had  seen  her  sure  enough,  for 
she  had  contrived  to  be  in  the  entry  when  they  got 
out  of  the  chaise,  and  she  had  heard  her  speak  too : 
she  had  heard  her  say,  "  and  there  is  a  black  and 
white  straw  basket,  George," — that  was  Mr.  Morland, 
for  she  knew  that  his  name  was  George  :  she  seemed 
to  stand  a  good  height  too,  and  by  her  figure  Ann 
would  fancy  she  was  handsome. 

"And  how  was  she  dressed?"  asked  the  young 
mistress,  eagerly. 

Ann  again  could  not  exactly  tell,  for  the  entry  was 
dark ;  but  she  seemed  to  have  on  a  black  and  white 
plaided  cloak  with  a  large  cape,  a  dark  boa,  and 
some  sort  of  a  silk  bonnet,  but  whether  it  was  blue, 
or  black,  or  green,  or  drab,  was  more  than  she  could 
say ;  there  was  a  deal  of  luggage,  however,  that  she 
knew,  besides  the  "big  box,"  which  had  come  the 
day  before  by  the  carrier. 

Upon  this  information  the  two  young  ladies  began 
a  most  interesting  conversation,  which  was  no  way 
abated  when  j\Ir.  Mark  Sopworth,  the  young  tea- 
dealer,  came  in  to  his  tea,  bringing  with  him  the 
iame  tidings  which  the  maid  had  done  five  minute* 


4  MBS.  MORLAND  S  ARRIVAL. 

before,  namely,  that  Mrs.  Morland  was  come,  but 
differing  from  her  in  some  of  the  minor  particulars, 
as,  for  instance,  thai  her  bonnet  was  straw,  with  a 
black  veil,  and  that  she  had  a  squirrel  boa  and  muff; 
and,  moreover,  that  she  had  a  very  pretty  foot  and 
ankle,  and  that  ]\Ir.  Morland  had  given  her  a  kiss  as 
soon  as  she  was  in  the  house,  as  he  himself  had  seen 
through  Mr.  Morland's  hall  window,  which  was 
opposite  his  back  shop-window. 

Mr.  Sopworth  looked  at  Mary  Wheeler  as  he  said 
this ;  and  Mary,  who  was  a  very  pretty,  though  some- 
what pale  girl,  blushed  very  much.  Why  did  she 
blush  ? — Nay,  how  can  we  tell,  for  she  really  did  not 
know  herself,  and  was  quite  vexed  that  she  had  done 
so.  Mr.  Mark  Sopworth,  however,  thought  she 
looked  so  very  pretty  with  that  crimson  glow  on  her 
cheeks,  that  he  placed  his  chair  close  to  her's,  and 
then  went  to  the  tea-table,  and  selected  from  a  plate 
of  fancy  cakes  one  covered  with  sugar,  in  the  form  of 
a  heart,  which  he  gave  to  her.  Again  she  blushed, 
and  this  time  deeper  than  she  had  done  before,  and 
smiled  very  sweetly  at  the  same  time,  which  made 
Mr.  Sopworth  think,  suppose  now  he  were  to  give 
her  a  kiss,  what  would  she  say  ?  Would  she  be 
offended  ? 

He  had  almost  a  mind  to  try  ;  and  perhaps  he 
would  have  done  so,  had  not  one  of  the  apprentices 
tapped  at  the  window,  which  was  the  signal  of  his 
being  wanted  in  the  shop :  so  Mary  ate  the  cake, 
thinking  to  herself,  poor  girl,  how  happy  she  should 
be,  if  Mr.  INIark  Sopworth  really  liked  her ;  and  her 
friend  the  while  poured  out  the  tea,  and  went  on 
talking  about  the  new  Mrs.  Morland. 


MJIS.   MORLAND  S  ARRIVAL.  O 

**  I  should  not  at  all  wonder  if  she  is  handsome," 
said  she,  "  for  he  is  just  one  of  those  men  to  make  a 
point  of  beauty.  I  never  fancied  him  very  steady, 
though,"  said  she  ;  "  you  know  he  was  a  commercial 
traveller  for  many  years,  and  those  gentlemen  always 
lead  such  gay  lives  I" 

"  Some  people  reckon  him  so  very  handsome,"  said 
Mary  Wheeler,  "  do  you  think  him  so  ?" 

"Very!"  returned  her  friend,  "very  handsome! 
do  not  you  v" 

Mary  demurred  ;  he  came  to  her  imcle's,  she  said, 
very  often  ;  they  drank  brandy  and  water  together, 
and  someway  or  other  she  did  not  tliink  him  so  very 
handsome ;  his  nose  was  not  straight,  and  he  had  such 
large  whiskers. 

"  A  light  man  pleases  you  better,"  said  Eliza  Sop- 
worth  with  a  nod,  and  again  Mary  blushed,  for  she 
had  indeed  thought  many  a  time  that,  according  to 
her  taste,  Mark  Sopwortk  was  a  great  deal  better- 
looking  than  the  universally-reckoned  handsome  Mr. 
Morland  ;  and,  beyond  this,  she  could  not  help  feeling 
pleased,  this  being  the  first  time  that  Miss  Eliza 
Sopworth  had  ever  in  any  way  named  her  and  her 
brother  in  the  same  breath.  Very  slight  things  are 
taken  as  omens  of  what  the  heart  wishes ;  Mary 
was  pleased,  and  felt  that,  some  way  orother,  she  had 
never  been  happier  than  she  was  at  that  moment. 
"  Of  course  you  will  call  on  Mrs.  Morland  ?"  said 
she. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Sopworth,  "  certainly  she 
ghould ;  so  would  Miss  Wheeler ;  and  when  would 
she  call?  and  might  not  they  3S  well  both  go  toge- 
ther 1"     ;Mary  said  that  Mr.  Morland  had  made  her 


6  MRS.   MORLAND  S  ARRIVAL. 

promise  to  go  very  soon ;  he  had  told  her  that  she  and 
his  wife  would  like  one  another  very  much,  and  that 
she  hoped  she  should,  for  that  she  was  always  glad  to 
have  lady-acquaintance ;  that  it  was  a  great  deal 
pleasanter  to  her  now,  than  it  used  to  be  before  she, 
Miss  Sopworth,  came ;  she  used  never  to  speak  to  a 
lady,  perhaps,  sometimes  from  one  week's  end  to 
another  ;  it  was  such  a  thing,  she  said,  that  her  uncle 
never  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  :  she  was  very  fond 
of  Miss  Harris,  who  was  the  lady,  as  Miss  Sopworth 
kne\v',  whom  all  the  world  expected  Mr.  Crawley 
to  marry  ;  and  a  wife,  she  really  did  believe,  would 
make  a  very  different  person  of  her  uncle.  But 
seeing,  however,  that  her  uncle  was  not  very  likely 
to  marry,  she  hoped  Mrs.  Morland  would  turn  out  a 
nice  neighbour,  that  she  did,  indeed  !  and  that  she 
w^ould  not  be  like  Mis.  Nixon,  who  had  alw^ays 
thought  herself  too  good  to  associate  with  trades- 
people. 

From  this  they  began  to  talk  of  the  Nixons.  Miss 
Sopworth  lia(i  never  knowTi  them  ;  they  were  Mr. 
Morland's*  predecessors,  and  Mr.  Sopworth  had  been 
yet  scarcely  a  year  in  his  shop.  The  Nixons,  it  was 
said,  had  made  a  fortune  there  ;  he  was  the  inventor 
and  patentee  of  various  perfumed  essences,  which  had 
j^-ained  great  celebrity.  Mr.  Morland,  who,  as  a 
commercial  traveller,  had  been  in  part  employed  by 
him,  had,  after  his  death,  which  occurred  before 
middle  life,  purchased  his  business,  his  stock  in  trade, 
and  his  valuable  recipes,  from  his  widow ;  and,  leaving 
his  travelling,  had  established  himself  here  as  manu- 
facturer, hoping,  of  course,  to  make  as  much,  nay,  a 
gitjat  deal  more,  money  than  his  predecessor,  inasmuch 


MRS.   MORLAND  S  AKRIVAL.  J 

as  he  had  a  far  higher  opinion  of  his  own  abiiitiea 
than  he  had  of  those  of  Mr.  Nixon. 

From  the  conversation  of  Miss  Sopworth  and  her 
risitor,  any  third  party  would  have  discovered  that 
Mrs.  Nixon  had  been  a  very  haughty  lady,  who  had 
associated  only  with  the  wives  of  professional  people, 
and  that  it  was  greatly  to  be  desired  that  Mrs.  Mor- 
land  might  not  be  like  her.  Mr.  Morland,  too,  it 
"would  have  been  learnt,  from  the  same  unquestion- 
able authority,  had  taken  not  only  Mr.  Nixon's  stock 
in  trade,  but  a  deal  of  his  furniture  likewise  ;  Mrs. 
Nixon  had  only  removed  china  and  glass,  pkte,  and 
linen,  leaving  all  the  rest  as  it  had  been  when  they 
lived  there.  It  was  very  good  furniture,  they  said, 
but  Mr.  Morland  had  paid  dear  enough  for  it.  Becky, 
too,  Mr.  Nixon's  old  cook,  lived  there  still ;  Mr.  Mor- 
land had  taken  her  with  the  rest  of  the  fixtures.  He 
had  a  little  servant-boy,  whom  he  had  put  into  a  sort 
of  livery.  Miss  Sopw^orth  had  seen  him  only  the  last 
Sunday ;  and  she  was  quite  sure  that  the  Morlands 
would  be  very  genteel  sort  of  people. 

Mr.  Morland,  Mary  AVheeler  said,  was  every  way 
a  very  different  kind  of  person  to  Mr.  Nixon  ;  he 
used  always  to  be  down  in  his  distillery  in  a  paper- 
cap,  she  had  heard  say,  and  a  working-dress  ;  she 
had  been  told  that  he  never  let  any  soul  see  him  at 
work,  nor  know  any  of  his  secrets  ;  he  never  used  to 
go  out  anywhere  of  an  evening,  and  only  just  bowed 
to  her  uncle  when  they  met.  Mr.  Morland,  however, 
W36  quite  another  kind  of  man.  Old  Matthew,  who 
had  been  Mr.  Nixon's  porter  for  so  many  years,  did 
the  distilling  now,  and  Mr.  Morland  went  out  some- 
where or  other  every  evening — he  was  a  capital  singer. 


8  WHAT  MRS.  MORLAND 

*'  Oh,"  she  said,  "  if  Miss  Sopworth  had  only  heard 
him  sing  '  W^ill  Watch,'  and  '  Oh,  Nannie,  wilt  thou 
gang  wi'  me,'  she  would  be  delightod  !"  Mary 
Wheeler  was  exceedingly  glad,  she  said,  that  they 
had  such  a  neighbour,  for  her  uncle  was  very  fond  of 
his  company,  and  it  always  put  him  in  good  humooi 
to  see  him  come. 


CHAPTER  II. 


WHAT    MRS.  MORLAND    HEARD    OF    HER    NEIGHBOVAS. 

"  Who  in  the  world  is  that  1"  asked  the  bright- 
eyed  Mrs.  Morland,  from  her  husband,  a  few  morn- 
ings after  her  arrival,  as  at  nine  o'clock  they  sate 
together  at  their  breakfast,  and  tlie  angry,  Hiormy 
voice  of  Mrs.  Barker  was  heard  outside,  scolding  her 
three  boys,  who  were  all  quarrelling  together  among 
the  great  hop-bags,  where  they  had  been  at  play  ;  "for 
Heaven's  sake,  George,  who  is  that  terrible  woman  ?" 

"It's  only  Mrs.  Barker,"  returned  he;  "you'll 
get  used  to  her  in  timje,  as  I  have  done."  And  then 
he  began  and  told  the  neighbourly  history  of  the 
white  cat  which  either  she  or  her  husband  had 
poisoned.  The  cat,  Mr.  Morland  said,  belonged  to 
Mr.  Crawley.  They  were  overrun  with  rats  since 
she  was  killed  ;  and  this  cat  was  a  capital  creature, 
and  very  handsome,  too.  Mr.  Crawley  had  declared 
that  he  would  not  have  taken  a  guinea  for  her.  She 
used  to  come  into  his,  Mr.  Morland's,  premises,  and 
had,  it  was  supposed,  wandered  after  her  prey  into 
those  of  Mr.  Barker.  However,  the  cat  was  poisoned. 


HEARD  OP  HER  NEIGHBOURS.  9 

and  was  then  thrown  over  the  wall  down  into  Mr. 
Crawley's  area. 

Mrs.  Morland  agreed  with  her  husband  that  it  was 
the  most  unneighbourly  thing  she  ever  heard  of;  and 
then  she  inquired  what  sort  of  people  they  were  who 
lived  on  the  other  side  of  them,  and  the  family,  too, 
who  lived  at  the  bottom  of  the  yard  ;  for  these,  after 
all,  were  of  the  most  consequence,  because  they  had 
all  of  them  but  one  common  entrance-court  to  the 
three  houses. 

"  Oh,  they  are  quiet,  respectable  people  enough," 
said  he.  "  There  's  young  Sopworth,  who  has  the 
shop  aud  the  rooms  behind  it,  and  who  has  been  in 
business  hardly  twelve  months.  He  is  a  good  sort 
of  person,  I  believe,  though  not  one  of  my  sort — 
rather  humdrumish.  His  sister  keeps  his  house, 
and  is  a  pretty  black-eyed  girl ;  his  family,  who  are 
respectable  farmers,  live  in  the  country  ;  and  the 
place,  on  market  and  fair-days,  is  overrun  with 
country-folks.  All  the  family  dine  there  on  market 
days,  and  they  are — "     Mr.  IMorland  hesitated. 

"  What  are  they  ?"  asked  his  wife. 

"Commonish  sort  of  folks,"  said  he,  and  sipped  his 
coffee.  '"  I  fancy  he  has  a  bit  of  a  notion,"  added  he, 
the  next  moment,  "  of  Miss  "NV^heeler,  old  Crawley's 
niece,  at  the  bottom  of  the  yard  ;  she  is  a  very  nice 
girl — quite  a  genteel  girl ;  but  she  leads  a  miserable 
life  with  the  old  fellow — not  that  he  is  so  old  either, 
but  he  has  all  the  vices  and  disagreeables  of  an  old 
man,  with  some  of  the  follies  of  a  young  one.  There's 
something  odd  about  him ;  he  is  a  miser  and  a  spend- 
thrift at  the  same  time ;  a  churl,  and  a  downright 
good  ftllow." 


10  WHAT  MRS.  MORLAND 

"  Not  a  very  pleasant  neighbour,"  said  Mrs.  Moi- 
land. 

*'  Well  enough  for  tliat,"  said  Mr.  Morland,  "  but 
I  've  heard  that,  twenty  years  ago,  he  had  one  of  the 
finest  chances  in  the  world  of  being  a  rich,  an  enor- 
mously rich  man.  He  was  of  low  parentage,  I  believe, 
and  was  apprenticed  to  the  now  rich  drapers  of  this 
place,  Hacket  and  Smith,  who  owned  and  occupied 
all  these  premises.  They  did  an  immense  stroke  of 
business,  and  employed  as  much  as  fifty  young  men, 
which,  for  a  country  business  in  those  Jays,  was 
souiething  extraordinary.  Crawley,  when  out  of  his 
time,  remained  there  as  shopman.  He  seemed  to 
have  uncommon  talents  for  business,  and,  by  degrees, 
got  greatly  into  the  confidence  of  the  firm.  Hacket 
and  Smith  were  both  of  them  old  men :  Hacket  had 
nothing  but  daughters,  and  Smith  only  one  son,  who, 
having  an  independent  fortune,  had  never  turned  his 
mind  to  business.  Old  Smith  withdrew  from  the 
concern,  and,  at  Hacket's  death,  about  twenty  years 
ago,  Crawley  took  to  the  business.  No  doubt  he  had 
to  borrow  'money,  and  thus  began  with  considerable 
incumbrance  ;  but  that,  however,  is  only  conjecture. 
I  know  nothing  about  it;  only  this  is  certain,  that^ 
even  if  that  had  been  the  case,  single  man  as  he  was, 
never  did  any  one  begin  life  with  a  better  prospect 
before  him.  He  was  fitter,  however,  as  one  may  say, 
for  a  servant  than  a  master ;  he  managed  badly.  New 
establishments  in  the  place  had  taken  the  lead  ;  and 
in  comparatively  but  a  few  years  his  retail  business 
had  nearly  dwindled  away.  Upon  this  he  took  to 
wholesale,  and  had  all  kinds  of  schemes  of  trade,  li 
he  did  not  take  many  orders,  however,  the  life  suited 


HEARD  or  HER  tfKlOHBOVRS.  11 

him  very  well.  It  was  thus  that  we  first  became 
acquainted  :  he  is  a  capital  fellow  over  a  bottle, 
and  never  got  to  the  end  of  his  merry  stories : 
that,  however,  is  his  good  side ;  and  even  after  he  had 
been  more  tlian  once  kicked  out  of  the  travellers' 
room,  he  had  his  partisans,  who  defended  him  through 
thick  and  thin.  In  a  while,  his  wholesale  business 
would  not  pay  his  travelling  expenses ;  so  he  returned 
to  his  shop  again,  which,  even  all  this  time,  he  had 
kept  on.  I  knew  the  place  and  all  tliese  premises 
long  before  I  ever  thought  of  living  in  them.  Nixon 
then  lived  here,  and  Crawley  had  the  shop  which 
Sopworth  has  now  ;  and  his  wareroonis  were  those 
which  are  now  converted  into  Sopwovth's  house.  The 
whole  establishment,  in  those  days,  had  a  most  un- 
prosperous  look  :  the  shop  was  full  of  old-fashioned 
goods,  which  he  either  could  not  afford,  or  out  of 
stupidity  would  not  sell  at  reduced  prices.  He  took 
shopmen  at  low  salariei,  who,  from  want  of  address 
or  character,  could  not  get  better  situations,  and  half- 
starved  them  and  his  apprentices,  whom  he  still 
took,  not  for  their  services,  but  for  the  small  fees 
which  he  received  with  them ;  while  he  drove  about 
in  his  gig  to  get  orders  from  cotintry  shops.  Yet  all 
this  time  he  dressed  well,  and  reckoned  himself 
quite  above  all  other  tradespeople,  for  lie  still,  in  his 
own  imagination,  estimated  himself  by  tiie  reputation 
of  his  predecessors.  He  told  a  merry  story,  listened 
td  a  merry  song,  and  sate  down  among  his  old  com- 
mercial acquaintance,  as  cheerfully  as  ever,  to  a  bottle 
of  wine,  though,  I  must  confess,  that  he  generally 
contrived  to  shirk  his  share  of  the  expenses.  With 
ftll  his  bad  qualities,  however,  as  I  said  before,  he  waa 


12  WHAT  MRS.  MORLAND 

rather  liked  in  a  travellers'  room  ;  and  whether  he  be 
bankrupt  or  not,  it  will  continue  to  be  so,  1  suppose, 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  whether  that  is  quite  right," 
said  Mrs.  Morland ;  and  her  husband,  without  noticing 
her  remark,  continued  his  narrative.  '  Shopkecping, 
as  you  may  think,"  said  he,  "  did  not  answer ;  and 
he  soon  found  that  even  his  diminished  premises  were 
more  than  he  required.  He  had  the  lea^e  of  the 
whole  at  a  low  rate  ;  Nixon  occupied  that  which  we 
now  have,  and  the  remainder  he  redivided,  with- 
drawing himself  to  the  back,  where  he  has  one  or  two 
good  rooms,  and  still  pretends  to  carry  on  a  sort  of 
wholesale  business — though  Heaven  knows  in  what 
it  consists.  He  gives  it  out  that  he  has  an  independent 
property  ;  many  people  believe  so :  others  think  that 
his  income  consists  merely  in  the  profit  he  has  made 
in  subdividing  and  underletting  these  premises. 
Four  different  trades  have  occupied  the  shop  which 
Sopworth  has,  in  about  as  many  years ;  all  quarrelled 
with  their  landlord,  failed,  and  made  bad  work  of  it. 
Sopworth,  the  fifth  adventurer,  was  reckoned  a  bold 
man  to  begin  there ;  but  he  is  like  enough,  to  my 
thinking,  to  redeem  the  character  of  the  place.  He 
lias  got,  as  if  by  magic,  a  capital  trade.  He  is  a 
thorough  man  of  business,  has  good  connexions,  and 
his  family  has  money,  all  which  are  more  than  half 
the  battle  with  a  young  beginner.  He  is  sure  to  do ; 
but  yet,  after  all,  he  is  no  favourite  of  mine  ;  there  is 
something  mean  about  the  fellow  that  I  despise — " 

At  this  very  moment  old  Matthew  came  up  with  a 
woefully  grave  face,  to  desire  Mr.  Morland's  presence 
iu  the  distillery.     Something  had  gone  wrong ;  and 


HEARD  OF  UER  NEIGHBOURS.  13 

two  minutes  afterwards,  Mrs.  Morland  heard  her 
husband  below  stairs  cursing  and  swearing,  and  pre*, 
sently  afterwards  a  tremendous  explosion,  in  which 
was  heard  the  crash  of  glass,  a  hissing  of  steam,  and 
the  whole  house  seemed  filled  with  a  mixture  of  hot 
and  stifling  smells. 

Mrs.  Morland  was  frightened  out  of  her  senses,  for 
she  thought  nothing  less  had  happened  than  the 
blowing-up  of  lier  husband,  and  she,  too,  rushed  down 
with  the  distracting  i(iea  that  she  was  a  wretched 
widow.  But  Mr.  jNIorland,  who  was  alive  ^nd  well, 
was  damaged  only  in  temper ;  and  she  rushed  up- 
stairs again  so  happy  to  find  that  things  were  no  worse, 
that  she  troubled  herself  neither  about  his  anger  even 
against  her  for  coming  down,  nor  for  the  loss  of  the 
hundred  pounds  which  he  declared  this  mismanage- 
ment to  have  occasioned, — merely  reading  to  herself 
the  quiet  lesson,  ''  that  to  be  sure  she  had  no  business 
down  there,  George  was  quite  right,  she  would  attend 
to  her  own  affairs,  and  not  interfere  in  his ;  but," 
thought  she,  "  it  all  comes  of  one's  sitting  gossippLng 
80  long  over  breakfast.  I  declare  it  is  now  past  eleven 
o'clock,  and  the  things  are  not  taken  away  yet !" 

Mr.  Morland  looked  after  his  distillery  all  the  day; 
and  she  looked  again  over  her  nevv  home,  and  found 
much  in  it  that  required  her  attention.  To  all  ap- 
pearance this  new  home  of  hers  was  well  furnished  ; 
there  was  mahogany  furniture  in  the  dining-room  ;  a 
Turkey  carpet,  somewhat  the  worse  for  wear  it  is 
true,  on  the  floor ;  a  large  sideboard,  with  two  new 
plated  waiters,  which  looked  like  solid  silver,  reared 
up  upon  it,  to  say  nothing  of  liqueur-stand,  castoi-s, 
wine-glasses,   and  tumblers       There   were  crinison 

0 


14  WHAT  MRS.  iMORLAND 

moreen  curtains  to  the  windows,  and  two  arm-chairs, 
one  on  each  side  the  fire-place ;  Sx^  that,  altogether, 
there  was  nothing  to  object  to  in  tile  room.  Then 
there  was  the  drawing-room,  as  it  was  called,  up  stairs, 
furnished  very  properly  with  rosewood  and  yelloMr 
damask  moreen ;  there  was  a  sofa  and  a  sofa-table  ;  a 
pair  of  ottomans  with  tassels  at  the  corners;  there 
was  a  looking-glass  over  the  chimney-piece,  and  Mr. 
Morland's  own  portrait,  the  size  of  life,  with  black 
eyes,  black  whiskers,  black  hair,  large  white  forehea<J, 
and  red  cheeks,  looking  out  of  a  massy-gilt  frame  at 
you,  go  wherever  you  would.  How  Mrs.  Morland 
rejoiced  over  this  portrait ;  it  was  so  life-like,  so 
good-looking,  so  handsome,  as  she  thought  her  beloved 
George  to  be  !  She  never  felt  more  happy  in  all  her 
life.  She  loved  him  with  her  entire  soul ;  the  house 
was  to  all  appearance  well  furnished ;  he  had  a  good 
business;  they  should  be  rich,  and  they  would  be 
happy ;  for,  thank  God ! "  said  she,  but  not  with 
tears  in  her  eyes — for  she  was  not  at  all  sentimental — 
but  with  a  happy  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  feeling  of 
success  at  her  heart,  "domestic  happiness  depends 
quite  as  much  upon  the  wife  as  on  the  husband  !" 

"  We  are  shockingly  off  for  house-linen,"  said  Mrs. 
Morland  to  her  husband,  a  day  or  two  after  this,  and 
when  she  had  been  informed  by  the  veracious  Becky 
that  "  for  certain  sure  there  never  had  been  any  more 
linen  in  the  press  since  the  time  Mrs.  Nixon  left  than 
she  found  in  it — that  is  to  say,  two  pair  of  sheety 
and  four  tablecloths,  two  large  and  two  small ;  that 
there  were  only  these,  and  what  was  in  use;  and  as 
for  kitchen-towels,  Becky  assured  her  that  nobody 
but  herself  could  have  managed  with  only  four,  Mid 


HEARD  OF  HER  NEIGHBOURS.  16 

two  knife-cloths,  as  she  had  done;  but  then  she 
"Washed  every  other  day.  One  did  not  expect,"  she 
said,  "everything  to  be  complete  in  a  bachelor's 
establishment ;  so  she  put  on  as  well  as  she  could,  for 
slie  knew  wlien  the  missis  came,  things  would  be 
different,"  Mrs.  Morland,  therefore,  who  was  a  rea- 
ionable  woman  in  every  respect,  took  the  earliest 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  husband  on  this  sub- 
ject; and  Mr.  Morland,  who  appeared  altogether  as 
reasonable  as  his  wife,  replied,  "  Oh  yes,  he  knew  It, 
they  must  have  linen,  but  that  he  left  it  to  her 
buying ;"  and  then  he  took  up  one  of  the  new  silver 
spoons,  engraved  with  what  he  called  his  crest,  dis- 
played above  a  German- text  M.,  balanced  it  on  his 
finger,  arid  said  these  all  were  good  solid  silver.  She 
knew  that  good  solid  silver  was  one  of  his  hobbies;  so 
she  took  up  another  spoon  and  said  how  handsome  it 
■was,  and  that  their  table  was  really  handsomely  set 
out,  and  that  she  should  be  ashamed  of  nobody  seeing 
it,  especially  when  they  had  handsome  table-linen. 
Mr.  Morland,  who  had  been  accustomed,  as  com- 
mercial traveller,  to  dine  at  the  best  inns,  thought  as 
much  of  good  table-linen  as  his  wife  did,  gave  her 
unrestricted  permission  to  make  what  purchases 
she  thought  proper.  She  could  get  them  from 
Hawkins,  the  draper,  he  said,  with  whom  he  had  a 
bill. 

"  I  love  to  see  good  table-linen,"  said  he,  thinking 
of  a  good  dinner;  "and  every  day  a  clean  napkin," 
added  he,  rubbing  his  hands  at  the  same  time,  for  a 
couple  of  well-roasted  and  savoury  ducks  were  set  on 
the  table. 

Mrs.  Morland  thought  of  the  good  house-llncn  sh« 


16  THE   EXPERIENCES  Or 

would  buy ;  and  Mr.  Morland  thought  of  the  good 
dinner  he  was  eating ;  and  never  was  a  wedded  pair 
happier  since  Adam  and  Eve  ate  their  first  dinner  in 
Paradise,  than  were  the  cheerful-hearted  Mrs.  Mor- 
land and  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE    EXPERIENCES   OP    A    GENTLE   SPIRIT. 

Mrs.  Morland  made  her  appearance  at  the  parish 
church  on  the  fust  Sunday  after  her  arrival,  and  all 
the  neighbours  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  going 
there. 

"  She  Avore  a  dark-blue  wadded  lutestring  pelisse, 
with  a  chinchilla  boa  and  muff,"  said  Mrs.  Barker  to 
the  Sopworths,  with  whom  she  was  very  intimate, 
and  on  whom  she  called  that  Sunday  afternoon. 

"  Her  pelisse  was  levantine,  not  lutestring,"  said 
Miss  Sopworth,  whose  pew  being  adjoining  the  Mor- 
lands,  was  undoubted  authority  in  the  case. 

"Oh,  levantine  was  it?"  said  Mrs.  Barker,  "well, 
levantine  let  it  be  then ;  but  she  is  not  at  all  hand- 
some." 

"  Not  at  all,"  echoed  Miss  Lizzy  Sopworth,  who, 
from  some  unaccountable  cause,  had  felt  a  depreciat- 
ing sentiment  towards  her  ;  "  she  has  no  complexion 
at  all,  and  a  person  of  her  style  ought  to  wear  curls." 

Mr.  Sopworth,  her  brother,  said  that  Mrs.  Morland 
walked  well,  for  that  he  had  followed  her  to  churchy 
and  that  she  had  a  remarkably  handsome  foot;  he 
bad  seen  her  smile,  too,  and  that  he  thought  hei 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  l7 

handsome ;  she  had  fine  wliite  teeth,  and  very  good 
eyes. 

There  was  quite  an  excitement  through  the  whok 
neighbourhood  about  Mrs.  Morland.  She  was  ob- 
served a  good  deal,  as  being  the  successor  of  the  proud 
Mrs.  Nixon ;  but  still  more  on  account  of  her  own 
personal  appearance  and  handsome  dress.  The  whole 
neighbourhood,  such  at  least  as  aspired  to  any  equality 
with  the  Morlands,  talked  all  that  evening  about 
calling  one  of  the  next  days  upon  them. 

For  three  days  the  little  servant-boy  at  Mr.  Mor- 
land's  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  open  tho  door  to  callers. 
There  came  wine-merchants  and  their  wives,  but  not 
the  Barkers ;  there  came  the  principal  linendraper 
and  his  wife  ;  the  wife  and  daughters  of  the  first 
booksellers  ;  there  came  the  proprietor  of  the  town's 
newspaper  and  his  lady  ;  and  three  professional 
families,  and  two  or  three  wholesale  dealers  and 
manufacturers.  It  was  established  at  once  that  the 
Morlands  were  to  take  their  station  among  the  first 
tradespeople  of  the  place,  no  little  of  which  was  owing 
to  his  being  the  successor  of  Mr.  Nixon,  who  was 
said  to  have  made  ten  thousand  pounds  in  ten  years. 

Among  the  earliest  callers  was  "  old  Crawley,"  as 
he  was  called,  although  everybody  added,  in  the  next 
breath,  ''  and  yet  he  is  not  so  old  either," — accom- 
panied by  his  niece,  Mary  Wheeler.  Mr.  Crawley 
was  extremely  merry,  clapped  Mr.  Morland  on  the 
back,  and  drank  Mrs.  Morland's  health,  with  an 
accompanying  sentiment,  which  made  her  feel  both 
angry  and  uncomfortable.  Her  husband  laughed 
lou'dly,  as  if  it  were  a  capital  joke  ;  whilst  Mai-y 
Wheeler  looked  as  much  annoyed  as  she  herself  did. 


18  THE  EXPERIENCES  OF 

There  was  something  very  quiet  and  sweet  about 
this  young  girl  which  pleased  her  greatly.  "She  is 
really  very  pretty,"  said  she  to  the  Sop  worths,  who 
came  in  immediately  after  they  were  gone, — "  such 
soft  blue  eyes,  and  such  a  sweet  complexion !  Don't 
you  think  lier  lovely,  Mr.  Sopworth?"  said  she,  ad- 
dressing him  in  preference  to  his  sister,  whose  warmth 
on  the  subject  seemed  not  by  any  means  to  equal  her 
own. 

"Oh  yes,  very — very  indeed,  ma'am!"  saia  he, 
and  looked  very  conscious.  Mrs.  Morland  remem- 
bered what  her  husband  had  said  of  his  having  a 
fancy  for  her,  and  grew  all  the  warmer  in  her  praise; 
"there  is  something  graceful  about  her,"  said  she; 
"  she  is  quite  the  gentlewoman,  has  such  propriety  of 
manner,  and  is  so  quiet  and  self-possessed ;  my  hus- 
band has  often  spoken  of  her,  but  I  did  not  expect  her 
equal  to  what  I  find  her." 

"  Well,  of  all  the  people  that  have  called  on  me," 
said  Mrs.  Morland  to  her  husband  a  week  afterwards, 
"  none  please  me  so  well  as  that  pretty  Miss  Wheeler. 
I  am  glad  she  lives  so  near,  for  I  shall  try  to  make  a 
good  neighbour  of  her;  but  what  a  wretch  is  her 
uncle !" 

Morland,  remembering  Mr.  Crawley's  attempt  at 
wit,  laughed  again  as  loudly  as  he  had  done  before ; 
and  his  wife,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  felt  vexed 
with  him. 

"  You  are  so  over-nice  ! "  said  he ;  and  while  these 
words  were  on  his  lips,  old  Crawley  came  in,  to  finish, 
as  he  said,  whatever  bottles  of  wine  Mr.  Morland 
might  have  uncorked.  Morland  understood  wine  too 
Well  not  to  prefer  an  unopened  bottle  even  for  his  own 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  19 

drinking ;  so  taking  his  cellar-key,  he  went  down  for 
f^esh  wine  ;  and  his  wife,  seeing  the  two  gentlemen 
were  thus  not  very  likely  to  part  early,  protested  that 
she  would  send  in  for  Miss  Wheeler  to  drink  tea 
with  her. 

She  did  so.  Becky  made  them  a  fire  up  stairs,  and 
then  they  took  tea  together  ;  and  there  they  talked 
themselves  into  a  state  of  verj' friendly  feeling,  although 
their  acquaintance  was  not  of  many  days'  standing. 
They  talked  about  their  neighbours;  they  talked  about 

the  country  round  W ,  which  was  the  t«wn  where 

they  lived ;  ]\Iiss  Wheeler  informing  Mrs.  Morland 
that  the  prettiest  village  in  the  whole  neighbourhood 
was  Sommerton,  where  Miss  Sopworth's  father  and 
mother  lived — not  Mr.  Mark's — oh,  no  !  she  never 
said  a  word  about  him ;  and  then  she  informed  her 
friend,  in  a  half-whisper,  that  before  long,  most  likely 
next  week,  if  it  was  fine,  they  were  all  to  be  invited, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morland  of  course,  because  the  part^ 
was  invited  for  them,  to  go  and  spend  a  long  afternoon 
there.  "  It  was  a  most  charming  thing,"  she  said, 
*'to  go  to  Sommerton  to  old  Mr.  Sopworth's;  they 
were  such  hospitable  people,  and  there  was  such 
plenty  of  everything — new  milk  and  fresh  butter,  and 
cream  and  cheese-cakes ;  she  was  once  there,"  she 
said,  "  in  haymaking  time,  and  they  had  strawberries 
and  cream  in  the  hay -field,  and  rode,  all  of  them,  in 
the  hay- wagon ;  and  old  Mr.  Sopworth  was  so  merry 
and  good-natured,  and  Mrs.  Sopworth  made  such 
excellent  gooseberry-wine  !  Had  Mrs.  Morland  ever 
been  to  a  farm-house  ?" 

Oh  yes  !  Mi-s.  Morland  had — but  it  was  yeai-s  ago; 
and  she  was  too  good-natured  not  to  be  quite  sure  that 


20  THE  EXPERIENCES  OF 

the  farm-houses  which  she  had  known  years  ago 
were  iwfhing  to  compare  to  that  of  the  Sop  worths 
of  Sommerton ! 

From  people  they  went  on  to  talk  about  dress*  and 
Mary  said  how  everybody  admired  that  of  Mrs. 
Morland.  The  pelisse  she  wore  on  Sunday  was 
thought  so  handsome ;  so  was  the  silver-gray  Irish 
poplin  which  she  had  on  the  Monday  she  first  saw 
her.  The  silver-gray  Irish  poplin,  Mrs.  Morland  said, 
was  not  her  own  favourite — she  had  others  which 
she  admired  more  ;  she  had  some  rich  levantines  and 
satins — one,  a  figured  one,  which  really  was  hand- 
some ;  and  so,  after  a  while,  the  two  having  grown 
quite  warm  on  the  subject  of  dress,  nothing  in  the 
world  could  be  more  natural  than  that  they  should 
adjourn  into  the  bed-room  adjoining,  in  oider  that 
Mary  Wheeler  might  pass  her  judgment  on  the  things 
they  had  spoken  of.  It  was  almost  enough  to  excite 
envy  to  see  the  many  handsome  gowns  which  Mrs. 
Morland  drew  forth  from  their  new  home  in  wardrobe 
and  chest  of  drawers  once  occupied  by  the  proud  Mrs. 
Nixon,  whose  apparel,  however,  Mary  Wheeler  could 
assert  fearlessly,  could  bear  no  comparison  in  any 
way  with  Mrs,  Morland's. 

"  How  very  handsome  they  are  !"  said  she  with  a 
sigh.  "  I  have  a  pink  mousseline-de-laine  and  a 
black  silk,  but — "  She  did  not  finish  her  sentence; 
and  Mrs.  Morland,  who  was  brimful  of  benevolence, 
declared  that  the  pink  mousseline-de-laine  which 
she  had  worn  when  she  saw  her  first,  was  the  prettiest 
thing  she  had  ever  seen ;  and  that  the  blue  French 
merino  she  was  then  wearing  was  very  becoming, 
and  fitted  her  so  well :  "  but  then,"  said  she,  putting 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  21 

ber  handsome  things  back  again  into  ]ier  wardrobe, 
"  you  are  such  a  pretty  figure  !" 

"  This  is  the  third  winter  I  have  worn  this  merino,'* 
said  Mary ;  "  I  hope  my  uncle  will  let  me  have  a 
new  one  this  year.  I  wish  for  a  morone -coloured 
dress  ;  I  never  had  such  a  one  in  my  life,  and  I  fancy 
it  would  suit  me." 

"  You  would  look  sweetly  in  it,"  said  Mrs.  Morland, 
"  it  is  so  warm  a  colour." 

It  is  astonishing  how  intimate  this  conversation 
about  dress  made  them.  Mrs.  Morland  stirred  up  the 
drawing-room  fire,  when  they  went  back  to  it ;  and 
they  sate  down  side  by  side,  with  their  feet  on  the 
fender,  and  the  cheerful  firelight  shining  on  their  faces, 
with  as  friendly  feelings  towards  each  other,  as  if 
they  had  been  acquainted  for  years. 

••'  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  come  often,"  said 
Mary  W'heeler. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  and  I  am  heartily  glad  to  have  such 
a  pleasant  neighbour,"  returned  Mrs.  Morland,  and 
that  so  cordially,  that  poor  Mary  was  almost  ready  to 
worship  her. 

"  I  shall  tell  Lizzy  Sopworth  how  charming  she 
is  r  thought  she,  as  she  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow 
that  night  ;  ''  and  I  hope  they  will  ask  us  to  Sommer- 
ton  next  week,"  added  she  in  thought  the  next 
moment ;  and  then  came  in  suggestions  of  fancy, 
which  were  not  without  their  charm,  as  how,  if  ever 
«he  came  to  be  Mrs.  Mark  Sopworth,  it  would  be  so 
pleasant  to  live  still  next  door  to  Mrs.  Morland,  and 
she  was  quite  sure, — that  she  was  ! — that  Mr.  Mark 
Would  like  Mrs.  Morland  altogether  as  well  as  she  did. 

Mi-8  Morland's  coming  into  the  neighbourhood  was 


22 


THE  EXPERIENCES  OP 


the  pleasantest  thing  that  had  happened  to  Mary 
Wheeler  for  these  many  years ;  and  yet,  poor  giri, 
she  was  only  nineteen  :  but  what  we  say  is  literally 
time ;  for  many  years  she  had  not  been  so  happy  aa 
she  was  now,  and  yet  the  next  week  passed  over  and 
they  went  not  to  Sommerton.  Old  Mrs.  Sopworth,  it 
is  true,  had  called  on  the  market-day  with  hei 
daughter,  and  had  asked  them  all  to  go  on  Friday 
but,  unfortunately,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morland  had  a  prior 
engagement  for  Friday,  and  so  it  was  agreed  that 
Mrs.  Morland  herself  should  fix  the  day,  only  with 
the  proviso  that  it  should  be  very  soon.  Mrs.  Mor- 
land proposed  an  early  Tuesday ;  but,  alas !  Mr. 
Sopworth  was  going  to  a  great  cattle-fair  in  a  neigh- 
bouring town,  so  it  was  again  put  ofl'.  "  Only 
deferred,"  said  Mrs,  Sopworth,  "and  pleasure  deferred 
is  not  pleasure  lost ;"  then  Mrs.  Morland  had  a  cold, 
and  was  confined  to  the  house  ;  and  then  old  Mr. 
Sopworth  was  oo  lame  with  the  rheumatism,  that 
they  could  not  ask  anybody  till  he  was  better ;  and 
then,  alas !  it  was  the  end  of  November,  and  there 
was  no  moon  ;  but  next  week,  when  the  ii.ights  would 
be  light  again,  Mrs.  Sopworth  hoped  that  they  really 
might  be  able  to  make  all  points  meet. 

Next  week,  however,  came  and  went,  and  the 
Sop  worths  gave  no  invitation  ;  and  the  week  following 
came  Mary  \V'heeler  one  evening  with  her  work-bag 
ia  her  hand,  and  a  shawl  thrown  over  her  head,  to 
beg  that  she  might  sit  for  an  hour  or  two  with  dear 
Mi"S.  Morland.  Nothing  in  the  world  could  be  more 
d  propos^  as  Mrs.  Morland  had  just  determined  to 
send  in  for  her,  as  her  husband  was  gone  to  the  Blue 
Boar,  to   spend  the  evening  with  some  gontlemeo 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  28 

there.  She  had  put,  she  said,  some  pieces  of  what 
remained  of  her  wedding-cake  on  a  plate,  and  had 
given  orders  to  Becky  to  cut  them  some  nice  sand- 
wiches for  their  supper,  and  thus  they  should  be  as 
snug  and  happy  as  possible.  She  was  l^isy,  she  said, 
hemming  table-linen,  and  she  was  so  glad  that  Miss 
Wheeler  had  brought  her  work;  yes,  indeed,  they 
Bhoul'J  be  perfectly  happy! 

So  spoke  the  joyous-hearted  Mrs.  Morland,  in  the 
fulness  of  her  own  contentedness  ;  but  the  more  she 
looked  at  her  young  visitor,  the  more  she  felt  assured 
that  she  had  been  crying :  there  were  dark  rings 
round  her  eyes,  and  she  looked  unusually  pale.  Poor 
thing !  thought  Mrs.  Morland,  who  had  immense 
sympathy  for  sorrow  or  suffering  of  any  kind,  and 
she  felt  more  than  ever  determined  to  like  her. 

"  Why  do  you  try  your  eyes,  dear  girl,"  said  she, 
"  with  that  everlasting  backstitching  ? — it  is  the  worst 
work  in  the  world  for  the  eyes,  and  more  especially 
by  candle-light." 

"  My  eyes  are  very  good,"  replied  Mary,  "  and  I 
am  used  to  it." 

"  I  have  never  seen  you  about  any  other  work 
than  shirt-making,"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  taking  up 
the  wristband  which  Mary  had  just  finished  ;  ''it  is 
so  fine.  You  are  making  a  set  of  shirts  for  your 
uncle  ?" 

"  I  am  always  making  shirts,  or  fronts,  or  collars," 
Baid  Mary  ;  "  I  was  doing  it  this  time  last  year ;  I 
shall  be  doing  it  this  time  next  year,  for  my  work  is 
never  done,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  that  touched  Mrs. 
Morland's  heart. 

"  Does  your  uncle,  then,  require  so  many  ?"  asked 
she. 


S4  THE  EXPERIENCES  OF 

A  slight  blush  passed  over  Mary's  face  as  sns 
replied,  "•  Yes,  I  work  for  my  uncle ;  1  made  four 
dozen  shirts  last  year,  and,  oh,  I  don't  know  liow 
many  collars." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  thinking  to  herselt 
that  she  should  not  M'onder  it  the  old  fellow  dealt  in 
shirts ;  and  then  she  remembered  all  her  husband 
had  said  of  his  various  schemes  of  business,  and  of 
his  severity  and  unkindness  to  his  niece. 

"  But  you  should  not  stitch  at  night — indeed  you 
should  not, — young  people  ought  to  take  care  of  their 
eyes ;  but,"  added  she,  rather  thinking  aloud  than 
addressing  her  companion,  "  I  hope  he  pays  well  for 
all  the  work  which  you  thus  do  for  him." 

"He  gives  me  threepence  a  shirt,"  said  Mary. 

*'  Threepence  !"  repeated  Mrs.  Morland,  almost 
laughing  at  the  idea  of  twelve  shillings  for  four 
dozen  shirts. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Mary,  "  threepence  for  a  shirt,  let 
it  be  as  fine  as  it  may  ;  and  if  I  should  leave  it  to  be 
sixpence,  that  I  might  receive  silver  instead  of  copper, 
I  should  never  get  it.  I  have  got  a  save-all,  like  a 
child,"  said  she,  smiling  at  her  own  miserable  means, 
*'  to  put  my  money  in,  and  then,  when  it  amounts  to 
two  or  three  shillings,  I  can  afford  to  buy  some  little 
trifle  or  other  that  I  want." 

"  Poor  child !"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  in  her  very 
kindest  manner;  "  but  for  all  that,  Mary,"  added  she, 
*'  you  always  look  so  nice." 

Why  was  it  that  Mary  Wheeler  could  no  longer 
keep  back  her  tears?  It  was  because  a  kind  word 
affects  a  wounded  heart  little  used  to  kindness,  even 
more  than  a  stern  one  ;  and  Mrs.  Morland's  sympathy 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  2b 

was  like  the  one  drop  which  makes  the  brimming 
cup  run  over.  She  laid  down  her  work  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"  Don't  cry,  dear  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  wip- 
ing her  own  eyes  ;  "  young  people  ought  never  to  cry, 
it  makes  them  look  such  figures ;  when  people  get 
old,  it  does  not  matter,  but  nothing  destroys  beauty 
like  crying  :  tears  and  weeping  sound  all  very  fine 
in  poetry,  but  they  do  not  do  in  real  life." 

Poor  Mary's  heart  was  too  full  to  think  about  hei 
looks,  and  her  tears  gushed  forth  like  a  torrent. 

'*  It  will  do  me  good,"  at  length  said  she,  growing 
calmer  ;  "  it  always  does  me  good  to  cry." 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Mrs.  Morland ;  "but  you 
really  should  not  though ;  and  yet,"  added  she,  "  you 
do  not  know  what  interest  I  feel  about  you,  and  how 
it  has  always  made  me  love  you,  when  I  have  seen, 
as  I  often  have  done,  that  you  had  been  crying." 

"Well,  it  really  is  very  foolish!"  said  Marj-; 
"and  crying,  as  you  say,  makes  one  look  very  ugly; 
but  I  can't  help  it  sometimes." 

"  Every  heart  has  its  own  bitterness,"  said  Mrs. 
Morland  cheerfully,  and  who,  though  she  had  been 
crymg,  had  eyes  again  as  bright  as  ever. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Mary  ;  "  that  is  true,  but  only  in 
degree ;  few  young  hearts,  I  hope,  have  known  as 
much  bitterness  as  mine  has  known  of  late  years.  1  ] 
am  so  dependent,  you  see,"  said  she,  feeling  a  sudden 
willingness  to  pour  out  all  her  troubles  into  the 
bosom  of  one  who  sympathised  so  kindly  even  with 
her  tears,  "  so  very  dependent,"  continued  she,  "  I 
cannot  call  even  my  clothes  my  own.  My  uncle  ia 
BO  strange-tempered,  so  violent,  so  tyrannical,  I  may 

D 


26  THE  EXPERIENCES  OF 

say  that  it  really  prevents  my  loving  him  as  1  ought 
to  do,"  said  she,  with  a  deep  sigh ,  *"'  if  he  is  out  of 
humour,  he  is  always  angry  with  me,  and  his  way  of 
punishing  me  is  to  lock  up  my  best  clothes — for 
months,  sometimes,  I  have  had  only  one  dress,  till  I 
feel  so  shabby  that  I  cannot  bear  myself.  He  has 
now  taken  my  black  silk  and  my  mousseline-de-laine, 
and  I  have  nothing  but  this  merino  and  my  old 
morning  frock ;  and  if  Mrs.  Sopworth  was  to  ask  us 
to  go  there,  I  have  nothing  to  go  in  but  this  !  1 
cannot  think  how  he  can  do  so,"  said  she  ;  "  and,  oh, 
it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  so  dependent  as  I  am !" 

"  It  is  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Morland. 

"He  once  turned  me  out  of  doors,"  continued 
Mary  ;  "  I  was  very  young  then,  and  could  not  do 
anything  for  myself;  but  if  he  were  to  do  so  again, 
and  I  sometimes  think  he  will,  I  never  would  return 
to  him :  I  would  go  out  as  servant,  or  teacher  in  a 
school,  and  that  I  really  do  think  of,"  said  she.  "  And 
don't  ^■ou  think,  dear  Mrs.  Morland,  that  I  might  get 
such  a  situation  ;  reading,  and  writing,  and  needle- 
work, and  geography,  and  all  those  common  things, 
and  a  little  music,  I  could  teach  very  well.  There 
was  a  Miss  Smith  in  the  school  I  went  to,  who  was 
not  any  more  competent  to  teach  than  I  am,  and  I  do 
think  that  Mrs.  Harris,  the  lady  who  keeps  this 
school,  would  take  me  if  it  were  not  for  a  sort  of 
connection  with  my  uncle — they  think  it  would  offend 
liim;  and  therefore,  though  they  are  good  sort  of 
people,  they  never  take  my  part ;  and  in  any  situa- 
tion that  I  might  get,"  said  she,  "  I  would  try  to  do 
my  best, — nobody  knows  how  useful  I  should  try  to 
make  myself  I" 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  27 

"I  am  sure  you  would  !"  said  good  Mrs.  MorJand. 

**  I'll  tell  you  what  I  once  did,"  said  Mary 
"  though  1  never  before  told  anybody  else.  I  had 
saved  my  money  till  I  had  four  and  sixpence  ;  I  was 
very  unhappy,  and  I  thought  if  I  could  get  a  situa- 
tion as  lady's  maid,  or  to  travel  with  a  fanjily,  or  as 
nursery  governess,  how  good  it  would  be ;  so  I  put  an 
advertisement  in  the  paper  to  that  effect,  but  it  never 
was  answered :  I  ought  to  have  repeated  it  week 
after  week,  but,  oh  dear,  it  takes  such  a  deal  of 
money  to  advertise,  and  then  my  uncle  got  into  good 
humour  again,    and  so  I  am  here  still." 

"  Have  you  lived  long  with  your  uncle  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Moiland,  anxious  to  know  the  particulars  of 
Mary's  life. 

"  Ever  since  I  was  ten,"  returned  she  ;  "  nine  long 
years  !  People  talk  about  time  being  short,"  said 
she  ;  "  to  me  those  nine  years  seem  as  an  age  !  I'll 
tell  you  about  my  early  youth,  for  that  all  seems  like 
a  summer's  day." 

Mrs.  Morland  said,  warmly,  that  she  wished  she 
would ;  she  should  like  to  know  all  about  her ;  and 
Mary,  smiling,  yet  sighing  at  the  same  time,  began  as 
follows  : — ''  My  mother  was  my  uncle's  sister  :  there 
is  still  another  uncle,  but  I  shall  tell  you  about  him 
afterwards ;  my  father  was  the  master  of  the  Gram- 
mar School  at  Morton,  in  Devonshire ;  I  don't  know 
what  the  income  was,  but  it  must  have  been  small, 
for  my  mother  kept  no  servant.  There  were  two 
children,  and  we  were  twins — my  brother  Edward 
and  I." 

"  Oh  !  that,  then,  is  Ned,  of  whom  I  have  so  often 
heard  you  speak  ?" 


28  THE  EXPERIENCES  OK 

"  Yes,  dear  Ned !"  exclaimed  Maiy  with  enthu- 
siasm, for  her  afFeciion  for  her  brother  amounted  to  a 
passion.  "  My  earhest  remembrance  is  of  him,"  con- 
tinued she ;  "  we  slept  in  one  cradle,  we  lived  as  it 
were  for  one  another,  it  seems  to  me  in  remembrance 
as  if  he  had  his  arm  always  round  me.  He  was  but 
an  hour  or  two  older  than  me,  but  he  might  have 
been  years  m}-^  elder,  so  much  of  a  protector  was  he 
always  to  me.  I  remember  so  well  his  carrying  me 
over  wet  places  in  the  road,  when  we  went  out  toge- 
ther ;  his  scrambling  up  the  banks  to  get  flowers  for 
me,  and  his  climbing  trees  for  birds'  nests  and  eggs 
for  me ; — oh,  he  was  always  so  good  and  so  very  fond 
of  me  ! 

"  Morton,  where  we  lived,  was  but  a  small  village ; 
and  the  boys  whom  my  father  taught  came  from 
neighbouring  villages  :  they  used  to  bring  their 
dinners  with  them,  which  they  ate  in  the  school- room, 
and  then,  between  morning  and  afternoon  school, 
they  used  to  play.  There  were  some  very  large 
sycamore  or  lime-trees — I  do  not  know  which  now, — 
which  grew  around  the  school  and  the  school-house 
where  we  lived,  and  under  these,  in  summer  and  in 
dry  weather,  the  boys  used  to  play.  Ned  was  a  very 
merry,  active  boy,  and  as  fond  of  play  as  any  of  them ; 
but,  for  all  that,  he  never  forgot  me,  but  used  to  take 
care  that  I  had  my  share  of  fun  as  well  as  himself;  or 
if,  as  it  often  happened,  I  was  poorly  and  could  not 
play,  it  never  put  him  out  of  humour  that  he  had  to 
sit  beside  me,  or  even  sometimes  nurse  me,  instead  of 
playing.  He  made  all  the  boys  as  considerate  of  me 
as  he  was  himself;  and  when  it  was  cold,  always  took 
c&re  that  I  had  the  warmest  seat  by  the  school-room 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  29 

fire.  I  remember  his  once  beating  a  boy  bigger  than 
himself,  because  he  would  not  give  me  some  cherries, 
for  which  I  wished,  and  which  wore  part  of  liis 
dinner.  Poor,  dear  Ned !"  exclaimed  she,  with  glis- 
tening eyes,  "  there  never  was  such  a  boy  as  he  was  ! 
Then  he  was  so  strong,  and  active,  and  handsome, 
whilst  I  was  weak  and  delicate,  for,  as  a  child,  I  had 
weak  health.  My  mother  was  very  delicate,  too, 
and  was  often  poorly.  My  father  was  very  fond  of 
her — lie  was  all  to  her  that  Ned  was  to  me ;  we 
were,  indeed,  as  you  may  think,  very  happy  people. 
My  father  was  one  of  the  most  cheerful,  hopeful- 
tempered  men  in  the  world,  and  had  a  heart  as  kind 
and  gentle  as  a  woman's.  Ho  was  not  one  of  those 
people  who  are  kind  and  amiable  by  fits  and  starts ; 
he  was  always  so  :  he  was  full  of  goodness  and  con- 
sideration for  others.  He  used  to  get  up  in  a  morning 
before  my  mother,  and  make  a  fire  for  her,  that  she 
might  have  a  warm  room  to  come  to  :  he  used  to  do 
all  the  errands  for  her  in  the  town,  which  was  three 
miles  off,  because  it  was  too  far  for  her  to  walk ; 
and  after  teaching  in  the  school  all  day,  he  walked 
out  with  her  on  summer  evenings,  or  worked  in  his 
garden — for  we  had  a  lovely  garden,  and  both  my 
father  and  mother  were  fond  of  flowers.  He  was  a 
famous  cultivator  of  auriculas  and  hyacinths ;  and 
do^vn  one  side  of  the  garden  were  sheds,  in  which 
stood  stages  of  those  flowers  in  pots.  I  can  so  well 
remember  the  garden,  with  its  neat  beds  of  pinks 
and  carnations,  and  eveiything  in  such  trim  order ! 
Monthly  roses,  and  a  trumpet  honeysuckle,  grew  up 
the  front  of  the  house,  which  was  very  warm  and 
sunriy  ;  and  one  end  was  entirely  covered  witli  ivy, 
d2 


90  THE  EXPERIENCES  OP 

quite  up  to  the  chimney.  There  were  two  little  win- 
dows which  peeped  out  from  the  thick  ivy  at  this  end  of 
the  house  :  the  upper  one  was  our  bed- room  window  ; 
the  lower  one  was  in  the  kitchen,  by  the  fire,  where 
my Jather's  arm-chair  used  to  stand — for  we  were  not 
grand  enough  to  live  in  the  parlour,  though  we  had 
one.  I  remember  so  well  that  corner,  for  we  children 
had  two  stools  beside  my  father's  chair,  on  which  we 
used  to  mount  to  look  out  of  this  window,  which 
peeped  out,  as  it  seemed  to  us,  from  a  yard's  thickness 
of  ivy,  and  where  the  birds  used  to  come  for  crumbs 
in  winter,  and  nestle  all  day  in  the  ivy,  because  it 
was  so  warm.  How  I  should  like  to  see  that  house 
again  !"  exclaimed  she,  interrupting  herself ;  "  and  if 
Ned  and  I  ever  come  to  be  rich  enough  to  afford  it,  we 
will  go  there  and  see  the  dear  old  place,  as  well  as  two 
good  old  relations  that  we  have  there,  of  wliom  I 
shall  tell  you.  But  to  go  on — we  were,  as  you  may 
believe,  very  happy.  The  country  all  round  the 
village  was  pretty,  and  the  people  themselves  were 
so  friendly  ;  the  fanners  and  their  wives,  and  the 
Clergyman  and  his  sister — they  and  the  squire's 
family  were  the  only  gentry  in  the  village — and  they, 
like  all  the  rest,  were  very  kind  to  us,  and  came  often 
to  look  at  my  father's  flowers,  and  to  see  my  mother, 
when  she  became  ill. 

*'  My  father's  uncle  lived  in  the  village ;  he  was 
the  old  relation  of  whom  I  just  now  spoke ;  he  had, 
I  believe,  a  little  independent  property,  and  he  and 
his  neat,  little  old  wife,  lived  very  comfortably, 
although,  like  us,  they  kept  no  servant.  He  was 
very  fond  of  music,  and  from  him  I  had  my  first 
lessons.  He  and  the  old  organist  of  the  church  never 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  JHL 

could  agree — I  don't  know  why ;  but  my  uncle,  Mr. 
Fielding,  as  he  was  always  called,  used  always  to 
shake  his  head  when  he  heard  the  organist  spoken  of. 
I  suppose  there  might  be  some  rivalry  between  them, 
but  of  that  I  knew  nothing;  nor  do  I,  indeed,  remem- 
ber who  the  organist  was. 

"  My  mother  sang  very  well — beautifully,  as  it 
seemed  to  us  children ;  and  I  never  shall  forget  the 
pleasant  evenings  we  used  to  spend  at  my  great  uncle's. 
We  used  to  be  invited  to  make  these  visits,  just  as 
ceremoniously  as  if  we  had  been  grand  gentlefolks, 
and  we  had  always,  I  don't  know  why,  our  best  things 
put  on  to  go  in.  My  father,  too,  used  to  put  a  rose, 
or  whatever  flower  was  in  season,  in  his  button-hole, 
just  as  lie  did  when  he  went  to  church  and  carried  a 
nosegay  with  him,  in  his  hand,  for  the  old  lady.  My 
mother  used  to  take  my  father's  arm,  and  we  two 
children,  washed  as  clean  as  soap  and  water  could 
make  us,  and  with  our  hair  smoothly  combed  and 
brushed,  walked  before  them,  hand  in  hand,  exactly 
as  we  used  to  walk  to  church  on  Sundays.  There 
was  a  something  very  ceremonial  in  these  visits,  and 
yet  they  were  always  occasions  of  rejoicing.  We 
always  went  on  Thursdays  or  Saturdays,  because  they 
were  half-holidays,  and  we  were  invited  to  tea  at  four 
o'clock,  because  they  were  very  old-fashioned  people ; 
thus  it  was  always,  both  winter  and  summer,  daylight 
when  we  went ;  and  when  our  neighbours  saw  us  thus 
walking  up  the  village — for  my  uncle  lived  quite  at 
the  other  end — they  used  to  say,  as  they  met  or  passed 
us,  '  So  you  are  going  to  Mr.  Fielding's  to  tea  ?' 

"  We  always  had  hot  pikelets,  well  buttered,  to 
tea.    The  old  lady  used  to  begin  baking  them  as  soon 


32  THE  EXPERIENCES  OF 

as  we  entered  the  house  ;  and  when  we  children  had 
eaten  what  my  mother  thought  v.-as  quite  enough, 
she  used  to  say,  '  No  more,  not  a  bit  more,  children  !' 
And  then  the  old  lady  would  say,  '  Poor  things  !  they 
don't  get  hot  pikelets  to  tea  every  day  !'  And  then 
she  put  two  bits  on  each  of  our  plates,  smoking  hot, 
and  swimming  in  butter,  and  winked  at  us,  as  if  to 
say,  'Now  get  them  eaten,  children,  before  your 
mother  sees  it !'  And  so  it  was  always,  and  precisely 
the  same  ceremony  and  the  same  words  were  repeated, 
with  the  little  thick  squares  of  seed-cake,  which  were 
handed  to  us  at  parting.  '  Get  it  eaten,  children,' 
she  would  say,  '  before  your  mother  sees  it — or  put  it 
in  your  pockets ;  for  I  '11  warrant  me  you  '11  be  glad 
enough  of  a  bit  of  seed-cake  to-morrow  !'  At  wliich, 
of  course,  our  mother  and  the  old  aunt  smiled  at  one 
another.  They  were  dear  old  people,  those !"  said 
she,  luxuriating  in  the  pleasant  memory  of  those  past 
years — ''  and  they  must  have  been  rather  well  to  do 
for  their  station,  for  they  lived  so  comfortably  :  and  in 
winter-time,  never  let  us  come  away  without  a  cup 
of  warm  elderberry  wine.  After  tea,  my  uncle  seated 
himself  at  his  grand  piano — a  most  costly  and  splendid 
instrument,  which  almost  seemed  out  of  its  place  in 
60  poor  a  house — and  played  for  an  hour  or  two  ;  he 
had  very  great  knowledge  of  music,  and  must  have 
played  remarkably  well.  I  can  remember  even  now 
what  he  used  to  play  ;  both  Beethoven  and  Mozart 
were  favourites  with  him.  He  must  have  spent  a 
deal  of  money  in  music,  for  he  had  a  great  deal ;  and 
one  of  the  perpetual  subjects  of  complaint  with  him 
was,  that  people  sent  to  him  from  far  and  wide  to 
borrow  music,  and  that  he  had  great  trouble  in  getting 


A  GKNTLB  SPCKIT.  33 

!t  back,  and  even  when  he  did,  it  was  returned  to 
him  dirty.  He  was  very  clean  and  precise  himself^ 
and  liis  wife  was  just  the  same.  There  was  a  green 
baize  cover  kept  over  the  piano  ;  and  lie  never  closed 
it,  after  playing,  without  carefully  wiping  the  keys 
with  a  clean  silk  pocket-liandkerchief. 

''  I  learned  to  play  a  little  from  him,  and  he  always 
maintained  that  1  had  great  talent  for  music.  My 
uncle  Crawley  is  fond  of  music,  too,  and  I  must 
acknowledge  that  he  took  care  tiiat  I  should  not  lose 
that  which  I  had  already  learned.  But  to  proceed 
with  my  history.  As  a  child,  you  may  believe  that  I 
was  very  happy.  Home,  with  father  and  mother,  and 
loving  brothers  and  sisters,  how  blessed  it  is !  and  our 
home  was  like  a  heaven  en  earth.  I  remember  no 
such  thing  as  disunion  ;  there  was  neither  unkindness 
nor  hardship.  Summer  and  winter,  morning  and 
evening,  all  had  their  duties  and  their  pleasures. 

*"  One  of  the  most  mysterious  ordinations  of  Pro- 
vidence," said  she,  after  a  pause,  "  is  the  breaking  up 
of  households  like  ours  !  Slowly,  as  I  can  now 
remember,  did  the  health  of  my  mother  give  way. 
At  iirst,  my  father  drove  her  over  to  the  town  in  a 
taxed-cart,  which  he  borrowed  for  the  occasion,  to 
consult  the  physician  ;  and  then  we  children  were 
sent  to  our  uncle  Fielding's,  where  the  two  good  old 
people  never  failed  to  treat  us — we  little  knew  why 
— with  more  than  their  usual  kindness.  After  a  while, 
however,  our  poor  mother  became  too  ill  to  go  to  the 
doctor's  ;  he,  therefore,  came  now  and  then  to  see  her. 
We  liked  at  first  to  see  his  handsome  chaise  drive  up 
to  the  door,  and  thought  that  we  should  never  be 
tired  of  admiring  the  well-harnessed  horse,  and  the 


34  THE  EXPERIENCES  OF 

briarht  box-axled  wheels.  By  degrees,  however,  a 
fearful  sort  of  apprehension  mingled  itself  with  the 
doctor's  visits ;  our  mother  lay  in  bed,  and  our  father 
looked  thoughtful  and  unhappy.  He  was  more  than 
ordinarily  kind  to  us,  nevertheless  ;  but  he  told  us 
not  now  merry  stories,  as  he  used  to  do ;  he  wept 
passionately  over  us,  and  we  saw  him  weeping,  too, 
in  the  garden,  where  he  walked  to  and  fro  apparently 
unregardful  of  his  favourite  flowers,  though  it  was 
then  the  time  of  the  auriculas. 

"  It  is  a  dreadful  thing,  dear  Mrs.  Morland,"  said 
Mary,  "  when  sorrow  first  takes  hold  on  the  heart  of 
a  child  !  Long  and  bitter  sorrow  have  I  certainly 
known  since  then,  but  nothing  equal  to  the  agony 
that  weighed  down  my  heart,  when  my  father  took  us 
to  the  bedside  of  our  mother,  and  told  us  that  she 
was  dead !  We  had  taken  leave  of  her  the  night 
before.  There  was  something  very  solemn  in  that 
leave-taking.  The  Clergyman  was  there,  and  the 
doctor,  too,  and  our  old  aunt  Fielding,  who  had  come 
up  for  us.  She  had  cried,  but  we  did  not ;  for  she  had 
promised  us  seed-cake  and  gingerbi-ead  ;  and  we  never 
thought  but  that  we  should  see  our  mother  again 
on  the  morrow,  and  that  she  would  then,  perhaps,  be 
better." 

Mary  paused  here.  She  v/ept  at  the  remembrance 
of  that  last  leave-taking.  Mrs.  Morland  wept,  too  ; 
and  it  was  not  till  after  a  pause  of  a  few  minutes  that 
she  continued. 

"  We  were  nearly  nine  years  old  when  our  mother 
died.  It  was  fine  summer  weather  ;  the  garden  wag 
full  of  roses  and  all  kinds  of  flowers  ;  bees  were  hum- 
ming in  the  thick-leaved  lime-trees  that  shaded  the 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT*  Pb 

lAJPool-house  door;  everything  looked  cheerful  excep^ 
ing  our  father.  And  yet  he  went  on  with  his  teaching 
just  as  usual  ;  he  worked  again  in  his  garden,  he 
walked  out  with  us,  and  took  us  to  church  just  aa 
when  our  mother  was  alive, — the  only  difference  w^as, 
that  now,  instead  of  our  walking  before  him  and  our 
mother,  he  took  one  of  us  in  each  hand.  A  decent  kind 
woman  lived  with  us  in  the  house ;  the  clergyman 
and  his  sister  came  often  to  see  us,  and  we  went  again, 
as  usual,  to  visit  the  old  grand-uncle  and  aunt.  Our 
father  was  a  good  man ;  he  must,  indeed,  have  been  a 
pious,  good  ciiristian,  to  have  borne  his  loss  as  he  did. 

"  \Vii  children,  after  our  first  grief,  were  certainly 
not  unhappy,  for  everybody  was  kinder  to  us  than 
ever ;  the  squire's  lady,  herself,  sent  for  us  now  and 
then  to  the  hall ;  we  were  rather  frightened  at  these 
visits,  and  never  felt  quite  at  ease  till  our  father  came 
in  the  evening  to  fetch  us  home.  I  remember  won- 
dering at  him  as  I  saw  him  sitting  quite  unembarrassed 
with  her,  in  her  handsome  room,  while  she  said  all 
kind  of  friendly  things  to  him,  more  especially  about 
us.  Not  a  week  passed  without  some  farmer's  wife 
or  other  sending  us  a  present — a  goose,  a  couple  of 
fowls,  a  pork  pie,  or  ham,  or  something  or  other  nice 
or  useful ;  for,  after  all,  there  is  a  deal  of  goodness  in 
the  world ! " 

''That  there  is  !"  responded  Mrs.  Morland ;  "a  very- 
great  deal !" 

"  And  especially  in  a  simple  country-place  like 
Morton,"  continued  Mary,  "the  kindness  of  people  is 
unknown  !  But  I  am  making  a  long  story,"  said  she, 
*'•  and  if  I  tire  you,  you  must  tell  me." 

"  lire  uic  !"  repeated  Mrs  Morland,  "  impossible^ 
pray  go  on." 


36  THE  EXPERIENCES  OP 

Mary,  therefore,  proceeded  : — "  About  a  year  and 
half  after  our  mother's  death,  in  the  winter -time, 
there  were  great  floods, — the  river  which  runs 
between  Morton  and  the  town  overflowed  its  banks 
— it  rose  suddenly  in  one  afternoon.  It  was  just  at 
the  end  of  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  we  children 
were  sent  for  a  day  to  our  uncle  Fielding's,  while  our 
father  went  to  the  town,  to  buy  quills,  and  such  sta- 
tionary as  he  required  to  begin  again  his  school-keep- 
ing with.  He  said  he  should  be  back  about  six 
o'clock,  and  was  to  call  for  us  as  he  passed  the  house 
on  his  way  home.  I  remember,  so  well,  how  the  old 
lady  had  got  supper  ready — there  was  pork-pie,  and 
mince-pie,  and  there  was  to  be  mulled  ale  for  my 
father,  who,  she  thought,  would  be  cold  after  his 
walk,  and  we  children,  she  said,  should  have  a  drop, 
too,  to  keep  the  cold  out,  before  we  went  home. 
Supper  waited — and  waited — and  one  half-hour  went 
on  after  another,  and  he  came  not ;  and  first  we  had  a 
mince -pie  divided,  to  still  our  hunger,  as  she  said, 
and  now  a  whole  one  given  to  us,  to  keep  us  awake, 
for  eight  o'clock  came,  and  now  nine,  and  our  father 
was  not  returned.  At  last,  somebody  came  in,  and 
said  that  the  waters  were  out,  and  that  nobody  could 
pass  the  ferry  ;  it  was  imagined,  therefore,  that  our 
father  had  staid  in  the  town  all  night,  and  would 
return  in  the  morning,  by  the  bridge,  and  the  turn- 
pike road,  which  was  four  miles  round,  but — ." 
Mary  could  say  no  more;  she  covered  her  face  with 
both  her  hands,  and  sobbed  violently. 

"  He  was  lost  in  the  waters,  which,  unhappily,  he 
had  attempted  to  cross,"  continued  she,  after  some 
time ;  *'the  ferryman  saved  himself;  but  he  was  lost. 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  3? 

They  wanted  him  to  stay  in  the  town,  for  the  night 
had  set  in  wild  and  stormy,  but  he  would  not,  for,  he 
said,  he  must  return  to  his  poor  motherless  children. 

"  Oh,  it  was  terrible !"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  wiping 
her  eyes,  in  the  pause  which  Mary  had  again  made ; 
and  then  handing  the  plate  of  bride-cake  to  her,  she 
eaid,  "  eat  a  little  morsel  dear,  and  let  me  give  you  a 
glass  of  wine." 

How  kind  I  will  be  to  the  poor  girl !  thought  she, 
with  a  heart  brimful  of  kindness,  as  she  went  to  the 
sideboard  for  the  wine.  Mary  took  the  cake,  but  did 
not  eat  it,  and  tears  chased  one  another  down  her 
cheeks,  as  she  sat  for  some  minutes  in  deep  and 
thoughtful  silence. 

"  We  were  thus  orphans,"  at  length  continued  she, 
"  and  there  was  not  a  house  in  the  village  but  was 
open  to  us.  My  poor  mother's  two  brothers,  our 
nearest  relations,  were  sent  for ;  the  one,  my  uncle 
Joseph,  with  whom  I  live,  and  the  other,  who  had 
been  far  less  successful  in  life,  a  saddler  in  Exeter, 
and  who  had  a  large  family  of  his  own.  The  clergy- 
man and  the  squire's  lady  took  the  most  lively 
interest  about  us ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fielding,  the  goor. 
old  uncle  and  aunt,  proposed  at  first  to  take  me 
they,  however,  were  old  people,  although^  I  believe, 
still  living  ;  and  to  obviate  the  necessity  of  another 
change  for  me,  or  to  secure,  as  it  was  thought,  a  richer 
home,  and  better  prospects  in  life,  the  clergyman,  and 
all  the  rest  adopted,  with  great  apparent  satisfaction, 
the  after-proposal  of  my  uncle  Thomas,  the  saddler, 
that  they  two  brothers  should  each  adopt  one  of  us. 
Nothing,  on  his  part,  could  have  been  more  generous  ; 
he  liad,  as  I  said,  a  large  family,  ana  was  not  rick. 


38  THE  EXPERIENCES  OP 

My  uncle  Joseph  gave,  I  know  not  why,  the  prefer- 
ence to  me,  and  he  being  a  bachelor,  and  wealthy,  I 
was  considered  the  most  fortunate.  My  uncle  Joseph, 
who  knows  how  to  be  gentlemanly,  and  how  to  appeal 
amiable,  won  the  good  opinion  of  everybody ;  he  was 
invited  to  dine  both  at  the  clergyman's  and  the  squire's, 
whilst  everybody  thought  much  less  of  the  other 
brother.  He  was  a  plain,  homely  man,  and  rather 
blunt  in  his  manners,  and  preferred  staying,  the  few 
4ays  he  remained  in  Morton,  at  our  old  relations', 
even  to  winning  golden  opinions  from  the  villagt 
grandees.  Edward  and  I,  as  you  will  readily  believe, 
were  heart-broken  at  parting  ;  my  uncle,  the  saddler, 
gave  me  sixpence  not  to  cry,  and  my  uncle  JosepK 
gave  poor  Ned  half-a-crown  for  the  same  purpose  , 
but  we  cried  nevertheless.  Affection  is  deeply  rooted 
even  in  the  heart  of  a  child ;  and  we  had  been  too 
much  brought  up  in  love  not  to  feel  how  dear,  not  to 
say  needful,  we  were  to  each  other. 

"  I  came  here ;  everything  was  very  different  to 
what  I  had  been  used  to ;  the  town  was  large,  and 
the  house  was  large.  My  uncle  was  then  in  business  ; 
he  had  several  young  men  and  apprentices;  there  was 
no  female  in  the  house  but  the  housekeeper  and  one 
maid -servant;  the  housekeeper  was  a  coarse,  vulgar 
woman,  without  education,  but  who  had  unbounded 
influence  over  my  uncle ;  she  did  not,  however,  hold 
apparently  any  situation  in  the  family  but  that  of  a 
menial,  and  the  house  had  all  that  forlorn,  cheferlesa 
character,  which  the  want  of  a  female  ruler  always 
gives.  It  would,  indeed,  have  been  a  very  Avretched, 
not  to  say  unlit  home  for  a  young  girl,  had  it  not  been 
for  one  circumstance.    For  many  years  my  uncle  had 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  39 

been  supposed  to  have  matrimonial  intentions  towards 
a  most  excellent  young  lady, —  though  young,  indeed, 
she  then  was  not, — who,  with  her  mother  and  sister, 
kept,  and  yet' keep,  a  school.  She  had,  it  was  said, 
refused  better  offers  out  of  regard  to  him,  and  in  tho 
belief  that  he  certainly  would  fulfil  his  engagement 
with  her.  But  year  after  year  went  on,  and  he  still 
paid,  if  less  warm,  at  least  not  less  constant  attentions; 
but,  unquestionably,  his  matrimonial  wishes  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  whilst  she,  with  the  unwavering, 
unwearying,  constancy  of  a  woman,  loved  him  as  tri^Ly 
as  ever.  To  her  care  I  was  confided  as  a  day-boarder ; 
and,  for  his  sake,  if  not  from  real  affection  to  me,  she 
performed  her  part,  as  teacher,  most  religiously.  She 
was  an  accomplished  woman,  and  taught  me  all  she 
knew  with  an  affectionate  zeal,  which  soon  made  it  a 
pleasure  for  me  to  learn.  She  thought,  poor  thing ! 
to  show  her  affection  to  my  uncle  by  her  attention  to 
me  ;  and,  in  proportion  as  she  enabled  me  to  be  use- 
ful— no't  to  say  ornamental — in  his  house,  she  lessened 
the  necessity  which  my  uncle  had  once  felt,  or  had 
imagined  he  felt,  of  a  gentlewoman  to  sit  at  the  head 
of  his  table,  and  of  some  one  to  play  and  sing  to  him, 
when  in  good  humour,  and  to  tease  and  tyrannioe 
over  when  in  bad. 

-  ''  Often  in  my  troubles,  when,  what  appears  to 
rae,  the  disreputable  conduct  of  tlie  liousekeeper, — 
who  is  now  our  sole  domestic, — and  my  uncle's 
violent  temper,  have  almost  driven  me  distracted,  I 
have  thought  of  flying  to  this  lady,  and  taking  refuge 
with  her ;  but  calmer  reflection,  and  some  little 
experience,  has  taught  me  that  that  will  never  do. 
Much  as  she  and  her  family  like  me,  they  would  not 


10  THE  EXPERIENCES  OF 

run  the  risk  of  displeasing  my  uncle,  by  taking  ms 
under  their  protection  in  defiance  of  him  ;  or  even  by 
letting  him  suspect  that  they  listen  to  my  complaints. 
Poor  Susan  Harris  still  cherishes  the  hope  of  being  his 
wife ;  he  visits  there  at  least  once  in  the  week ;  and  it  is 
really  pitiable  to  me,  to  see  what  an  idol  he  is  made 
among  them ;  how  he  is  flattered  and  courted  by 
them  ;  all  the  more,  as  he  is  cool  and  worldly  !  God 
knows  !  but  with  all  their  efforts  to  win  him,  it  is  my 
opinion  they  will  never  succeed,  though  he  himself 
will  still  keep  up  hope,  because,  to  say  the  least,  it 
still  keeps  him  connected  with  a  respectable  family." 

"And  your  brother?"  asked  Mrs.  Morland,  "hove 
did  he  go  on  V 

"  Yes,  poor  dear  Ned,"  returned  Mary,  with  spark- 
ling eyes  ;  "  it  is  my  greatest  joy  to  think  that  he  is 
born  to  be  fortunate.  Something  or  other  good 
always  turns  up  for  Ned ;  he  himself  has  often 
said,  that  his  bread  never  falls  to  the  ground  on  the 
buttered  side.  My  uncle  Thomas  did  his  duty  by 
him  most  faithfully.  He  lived  hardly,  of  course,  as 
the  adopted  son  of  a  poor  tradesman  must  live  ; 
but  he  was  sent  to  school,  and  made  the  best  of  his 
opportunities.  My  aunt  was  a  somewhat  severe 
woman,  a  rigid  Calvinist,  and  had  very  strict  notions 
of  duty  both  to  God  and  man  ;  she  made  Ned,  how- 
ever, as  hap{)y  as  she  made  any  of  her  own  children, 
for  she  was  strictly  conscientious,  and  had  great  com- 
passion on  the  poor  orphan.  Fortunately,  Ned  was  a 
boy  of  strong  health,  and  of  strong  moral  constitution 
likewise,  and  therefore  he  made  the  best  even  of 
trouble  and  hardship  ;  and  amid  all  kind  of  kicks  and 
cuffs,  both  morally  and  physically,  grew  up  a  fine, 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  41 

handsome,  and,  what  is  far  better,  a  thoroughly  good- 
principled  and  warm-hearted  youth.  My  })oor  uncle 
Thomas,  however,  whose  one  fault  was  good-nature, 
unfortunately  had  given  his  bond  for  his  wife's  bro- 
ther to  the  amount  of  five  hundred  pounds — and  this 
he  was  called  upon  to  pay.  For  iiim,  it  was  a 
monstrous  sum.  He  had  not  five  hundred  pounds  in 
the  world  ;  my  uncle  Joseph  refused  to  assist  him  ;  so, 
all  that  he  had  was  sold  up,  and,  with  seven  children, 
to  say  nothing  of  Ned,  he  was  made  a  penniless 
bankrupt.  It  was  a  most  sorrowful  thing  !  All  that 
my  uncle  Joseph  would  do  was  to  take  my  brother 
till  something  could  be  decided  upon  for  him.  Ned 
came  here — but  before  I  tell  you  about  him,  I  will 
finish  the  history  of  my  good  uncle  Thomas.  His 
children,  fortunately,  were  some  of  them  grown  up. 
They  were  good  steady  young  people,  and  found  no 
difficnlty  in  getting  situations.  Some  of  them  were 
able  not  only  to  help  themselves,  but  had  every  pro- 
spect of  being  able  to  help  their  family  also.  Some- 
body advanced  a  little  money  for  the  father,  and  he 
again  began  business ;  but  the  true  help  came  from 
the  eldest  daughter,  Hannah.  She  was,  according  to 
Ned's  account,  one  of  the  most  excellent  of  God's 
creatures ;  not  pretty,  not  accomplished  of  course,  but 
a  bright,  cheerful-spirited  girl,  with  a  ready  hand  and 
a  ready  will,  and  a  heart  overflowing  with  kindness. 
She  went  to  live  as  housekeeper  with  a  lady,  the 
widow  of  a  respectable  tradesman  in  Portsmouth ; 
before  long  the  son,  a  man  worthy  of  her,  as  his  after- 
conduct  proved,  fell  in  love  with  her.  He  was  about 
emigi-ating  to  America,  and  not  only  took  this  young 
girl  with  him  as  his  wife,  but  her  whole  fiunily  also. 


42  THE  EXPERIENCES  OF 

They  were  people,  all  of  them,  cut  out  for  emigration j 
they  knew  what  hardship  was,  and  they  possessed  the 
best  of  all  power — the  power  to  help  themselves. 
They  were  not  too  proud  to  work  either,  and  could 
turn  their  hand  to  anything  ;  and  the  result  has  been 
happier  than  might  even  have  been  imagined.  The 
sons  and  daughters  are  all  well  married,  and  the  old 
people  live  like  patriarchs  amid  peace  and  plenty. 
The  mother,  too,  of  Hannah's  husband  followed  them 
in  a  few  years  ;  and  we  have  been  told,  by  people  who 
have  seen  them,  tkat  the  old  lady  lives,  as  it  were,  in 
the  bosom  of  felicity ;  and  whether  she  is  proudest  of 
her  son,  or  his  wife,  or  her  grandchildren,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  say. 

"  But  this,"  said  Mary  Wheeler,  "  is  bringing 
things  down  to  the  present  day ;  I  must  return  back 
to  the  time  when  dear  Ned  came  here,  and  when  I 
saw  him  last."  With  these  words  she  took  up  her 
little  black  silk  bag,  and  drew  from  it  a  small  bronzed 
profile  likeness  of  a  youth.  It  was  a  common  kind 
of  thing,  glazed  in  a  cheap  black  wooden  frame,  but 
for  all  that,  she  gazed  on  it  with  intense  affection. 

"  This  is  a  likeness  of  Ned,"  said  she ;  "  I  brought 
it  on  purpose  to  show  you,  though  I  never  thought 
of  giving  you  this  long  history  of  myself.  He  is  very 
nice-looking,  is  he  not  V  said  she,  showing  it  to  Mi-s. 
Morland  ;  "only  this  does  not  do  him  half  justice." 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  manly  face,"  said  her  friend,  "  a 
splendid  face  ;  and  a  deal  like  you,  too  !" 

"  Oh,  do  you  really  think  so  ?"  said  poor  Mary, 
more  flattered  than  ever  she  had  been  in  her  life  be- 
fore ;  "  if  I  thought  that  I  were  at  all  like  Ned,  I 
should  have  a  very  good  opinion  of  myself;  but  Ned'i 


A  GENTLE  SPIRIT.  43 

eyes  are  so  fine ! — he  has  never  cried  so  itjucIi  as  1 
have  done,"  said  she,  smiling  ;  ''and  then  lie  has  such 
a  lovely  mouth — and  there  is  so  much  in  a  mouth ! 
and  his  teeth  are  so  white  and  regular,  that  reall}''  it 
is  quite  a  happiness  to  see  him  smile.  Then  he  is 
such  a  gv>od  figure,  too — tall  and  straight ;  though  he 
was  but  a  boy  when  he  went !" 

"  He  hcts  the  shoulders  of  a  well-made,  fine  youth," 
said  dear  jNlrs.  Morland,  again  taking  up  the  likeness; 
"and  I  don't  wonder  at  your  being  proud  of  such  a 
brother." 

"  But  his  face  and  figure,"  said  Mary,  "  are  nothing 
to  his  good  disposition  and  his  cleverness — you  can't 
think  how  clever  he  is !  he  talks  so  well,  and  is  so 
witty  and  merry ;  and  then  he  has  such  good  sense 
and  kindness !  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  she, 
"  but  I  do  not  think  there  is  another  such  boy  as  Ned 
in  the  whole  world  !  My  uncle  said,  at  first,  that  he 
was  to  be  a  draper,  and  help  him  in  his  wholesale 
business,  for  he  then  had  given  up  his  shop.  1  wished 
this  at  first,  but  Ned  could  not  bear  it;  he  wanted  to 
go  abroad  somewhere  ;  and  so,  after  a  deal  of  per- 
suasion and  trouble,  my  uncle  consented  to  his  being 
apprenticed  to  an  East  Jndiaman.  It  really  was  very 
good  of  him  to  consent,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
grateful  these  things  make  me  feel.  I  would  love 
him,  I  would  be  all  that  a  daughter  could  be  to  him, 
if  he  would  only  in  some  respectsT^e^ifferent  to  what 
he  is!  But  to  return  to  Ned.  He  has  made  one 
voyage,  and  was  in  London  for  two  weeks  last  spring; 
but  alas  !  my  uncle  would  not  pay  the  expenses  of 
his  journey  here,  so  I  did  not  see  him.  I  would  havo 
walked  to   London  if  I  could ;  neither  had  he  any 


44  THE  EXPERIENCES  OP 

money — at  least  hardly  any.  He  wrote  to  me,  and 
some  day  I  must  show  you  his  letters,  for  they  are 
very  interesting ;  and  he  sent  me  from  London  this 
likeness  of  himself — it  is  but  a  common  thing — but  it 
cost  hal.f-a-crown,  and  that  was,  he  said,  all  the  money 
he  could  spare :  he  sent  it  by  your  husband,  Mr. 
Morland,  with  whom  he  accidentally  met,  and  who 
said  he  was  travelling  this  way,  and  knew  my  uncle. 
Next  autumn,  the  ship  will  again  return  to  England, 
and  my  uncle  has  promised  me  that  he  shall  come 
down  here.  I  hope  he  will  keep  his  word — if  he  do 
not,  I  think  I  really  cannot  bear  it !  It  is  the  only 
pleasure  I  have  to  look  forward  to ;  and  I  would 
forgive  my  uncle  any  treatment  of  myself,  so  that  he 
will  only  gratify  me  in  this  one  respect,  and  more 
especially  as  Ned  prays  ibr  it  as  ardently  as  I  do. 
You  should  have  seen  the  beautiful  letter  he  wrote 
to  my  uncle  to  ask  the  fovour  from  him  last  time  ;  I 
thought  he  never  could  have  withstood  it :  but  he 
did  !  Ned  sent  another  letter  for  him  before  he  left 
England  ;  he  told  me  to  read  it  before  I  gave  it  to 
him,  and  I  never  cried  so  much  over  anything  in  all 
my  life  as  over  it.  Jt  was  enough  to  touch  a  heart 
of  stone ;  but  for  all  that,  I  dared  not  give  it  to  him. 
I  knew  my  uncle  better  than  Ned  did  ;  and  1  feared 
that  it  would  have  made  him  so  angry  that  he  never 
would  have  forgiven  him  ;  so  I  burned  the  letter, 
and  have  only  endeavoured,  by  submission  and  obe- 
dience, to  deserve  from  him  this  one  greatest  of  all 
favours,  when  Ned  returns  next  year,  wliich,  after 
all,  though  it  is  more  for  me  than  all  the  world,  is  so 
very  little  for  him  to  do." 

She  clasped  her  hands,  and  looked  quite  pale  as  she 


A  OENTLE  SPIRIT.  4fl 

Bpoke,  80  greatly  was  she  aflfected  by  this  doep  wish 
of  her  most  affectionate  heart. 

"  He'll  let  him  come  !  Never  fear,  he  will !"  said 
Mrs.  M  orland  ;  "  he  never  can  have  the  heart  to 
refuse  you  ;  I  am  sure  he  never  can  ! " 

Mary  felt  a  good  omen  in  the  cheerful  assurance 
with  which  her  friend  spoke,  and  began  herself  to 
think,  too,  that  her  uncle  never  could  refuse  her 
again;  so  they  talked  together,  just  as  if  they  had 
been  old  friends,  of  next  September,  when  Ned  would 
be  here  ;  and  of  all  the  little  parties  and  excursions 
which  Mrs.  Morland  would  bring  about  to  give  him 
pleasure.  So  talked  and  planned  they ;  and  at  ten 
o'clock,  after  they  had  both  of  them  thoroughly 
enjoyed  the  supper  of  sandwiches  and  bridecake, 
Mary  took  her  leave,  and  Mrs.  Morland  sate  down 
again  to  wait  for  her  husband's  return,  thinking  to 
herself  that  she  had  rarely  seen  a  girl  who  had  pleased 
and  interested  her  more  than  Mary  Wheeler;  and 
remembering  that  she  herself  had  never  ail  this  time 
said  one  word  about  Mr.  Mark  Sopworth,  as  she  had 
intended  to  have  done. 


CHAPTER  IV, 


A    MERRY   CHRISTMAS   DAY. 

Christmas  approached,  and  the  visit  to  the  Sop- 
"vorths  of  Sommerton  began  again  to  be  talked  of. 
The  old  gentleman  was  better  of  his  rheumatism  ; 
there  would  be  a  full  moon  at  Christmas  ;  and  if  the 
weather  were  but  seasonable,  as  every  one  predicted 


46  A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

it  would  be,  nothing  could  be  more  charming.  It 
was  no  surprise,  therefore,  to  Mrs.  Morland,  when 
Miss  Sopworth  came  in  one  morning  with  a  magnifi- 
cent country-made  pork-pie  in  a  basket,  and  her 
mother's  compliments,  and  begged  that,  if  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Morland  were  not  otherwise  engaged,  they 
might  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  to  meet  a 
party  at  their  house  on  Christmas  day.  Mrs.  Mor- 
land answered,  both  for  herself  and  her  husband, 
"  Nothing  iu  this  world,"  she  said,  ''  would  give  them 
greater  pleasure ;  and  there  was  no  fear  whatever 
but  they  would  come." 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  Mary  AFheeler  came  in 
also.  She,  too,  had  an  invitation  ;  and  the  animation 
with  which  she  talked  of  this  approaching  pleasure, 
made  her  still  lovelier  than  ever.  Siie  was  in  ex- 
tremely good  spirits  that  day,  and  all  the  world 
seemed  to  wear  a  cheerful  aspect.  Her  uncle  was 
no  longer  out  of  humour  ;  she  had  not  only  received 
again  the  key  of  her  wardrobe,  but  the  promise  of  a 
new  dress  for  Christmas.  She  had  been  used^  at 
least  of  late  years,  to  so  little  kindness  and  indul- 
gence, that  a  very  little  of  either  made  her  heart  beat 
with  a  pulse,  quicker  and  stronger  than  even  Youth 
itself: — pity  is  it,  that  hearts  such  as  hers,  should 
have  to  bear  and  suffer  1  But  God  ordains  it  all ;  and 
the  sustaining  angel  of  His  consolation  steps  in,  sooner 
or  later,  to  turn  aside  the  bitter  cup,  and  to  mete  out 
good  instead  of  evil;  so  we  will  not  trouble  ourselves. 

Mary  an  ound  netting-silk  for  a  purse,  which,  before 
his  return,  she  meant  to  make  for  her  brother,  and 
talked  all  the  while  about  the  party  which  would 
assemble  on  Christmas  day  at  Sommerton.      She  said 


A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  DAY.  4? 

that  there  would  be  all  the  Sopworth  family, 
married  and  single,  and  that  they  were  numerous. 
There  was  the  son,  who  was  a  brewer,  and  the 
daughter,  who  was  married  to  a  rich  farmer,  and 
who  had  many  children  ;  and  there  was  the  youngest 
Bon,  who  was  apprentice  to  a  surgeon,  to  say  no- 
thing of  Mr.  Mark,  and  his  sister,  Lizzy.  Then 
there  would  be  the  Barkers,  she  said  ;  for  though 
Mrs.  Morland  did  not  know  the  Barkers,  the 
Sopworths  did,  and  were  very  intimate,  too.  She, 
herself,  did  not  like  them,  nor  the  Pocklingtons 
either,  who  would  be  there  also.  The  Pocklingtons, 
she  said,  were  farmers  in  a  village  equally  distant 
from  W —  as  Sommerton.  They  lived  on  their 
own  farm,  and  were  rich.  Mrs.  Barker  was  the 
eldest  daughter ;  and,  beside  her,  there  were  two 
others,  Susan  and  Barbara.  Barbara  was  reckoned 
handsome  ;  Lizzy  Sopworth  thought  her  so,  and 
they  too  were  very  great  friends ;  some  people  said, 
that  both  families  wished  there  to  be  a  match  be- 
tween Barbara  and  Mr.  Mark  Sopworth  :  she  did  not, 
however,  know  anything  really  about  it — only  Bar- 
bara and  she  never  were  good  friends,  even  when  they 
went  to  school  at  Miss  Harris's  together.  She  should 
be  very  glad,  she  said,  to  know  what  Mrs.  Morland 
thought  of  the  Pocklingtons,  and  especially  of  Barbara. 

Mrs.  Morland  thought  to  herself  that  she  could 
very  well  understand,  now,  why  Mary  A\'heeler  dis- 
liked Barbara  Pocklington,  however  it  might  be 
with  them  when  they  were  school-girls ;  and  she 
resolved,  on  Christmas  day,  to  observe  very  narrowly 
Mr.  Mark's  behaviour  to  these  two  young  ladies. 

Fortunately,  a  moderately  deep  snow  fell  in  the 


4b  A  MERRY   CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

week  before  Christmas  ;  strong  frost  set  in  at  the 
dame  time,  and  there  was  no  doubt  in  anybody's 
mind  of  the  moon  sliining  through  unclouded  skies 
through  all  the  Christmas  week.  It  was  the  very 
weather  for  the  season ;  the  carol-singers  went  of  an 
evening  from  house  to  house,  singing,  in  their  plea- 
sant child  voices,  those  melodies,  half  hymn  and  half 
legend,  which  are  only  too  much  passing  away  from 
our  popular  literature.  Mary  Wheeler  sate  with  a 
working  dressmaker,  busied  in  preparing  her  new 
morone-coloured  frock,  and  could  not  resist  giving  to 
the  little  carol-singers,  in  the  cheerfulness  of  her 
heart,  twopence-halfpenny,  which  was  all  the  money 
she  had  in  the  world. 

The  frock  was  finished,  and  fitted  admirably,  and 
Mrs.  Morland  said,  as  she  declared  everybody  else 
would  say,  that  it  was  precisely  the  colour  Mary 
ought  to  wear,  and  that  she  never  looked  so  well 
before  in  all  her  life.  Greatly  pleased  Avas  the  poor 
girl,  as  was  natural,  at  the  idea  of  looking  so  well, 
more  particularly  as  she  was  to  appear  in  the  presence 
of  Barbara  Pocklington. 

Sommerton  lay  between  three  and  four  miles  from 
W — ,  on  one  of  the  pleasantest  turnpike-roads  in 
England.  What  then  could  be  more  charming, 
thought  Mr.  and  Mrs.  IVIorland,  than  to  walk  there 
over  the 'hard-trodden,  yet  crisp  snow,  with  the 
bright  sunshiny  winter  heaven  above  them.  Mr. 
Crawley  was  to  have  driven  his  niece  over  in  his  gig; 
but  as  the  Morlands  walked,  of  course,  she  would 
prefer  walking  too  ;  so  her  uncle,  in  the  best  temper 
in  the  world,  said,  that  he  would  take  young  Sop- 
worth,  the  doctor's  apprentice,  instead.     It  was  all 


A  JfKRRY  CHRISTMAS  DAY.  49 

capitally  managed,  and  at  eleven  o'clock,  just  as  the 
bells  left  off  ringing  for  church,  the  liule  walking- 
party  set  out,  early  enough  ;  but  as  they  walked  they 
wished  to  be  in  time  for  a  rest  before  dinner,  which 
was  to  be  at  two. 

Everything  had  a  holiday-look  inSommerton  as  they 
entered  ;  church-service  was  over,  and  every  house 
they  passed  had  its  windows  garnished  with  holly, 
whilst  savoury  odours  of  Christmas  dinners,  to  which 
even  cottagers  were  going  to  sit  down — for  the  squire 
had  given  even  the  poorest  a  handsome  joint  for  the 
day, — met  them  at  every  turn.  They  walked  on- 
ward through  the  village,  hungry  and  happy.  The 
clipped  yews  and  hollies  in  the  formal  little  garden 
before  the  Sop  worths'  house,  looked  wonderfully 
spruce  in  their  winter  greenness,  amid  the  general 
snowy  covering,  as  if  they  had  been  trimmed  up  for 
the  occasion.  The  last  half-mile  of  the  way  had 
been  over  the  fields,  and  therefore,  when  they  arrived 
at  the  house,  they  saw  that  the  guests  had  mostly 
assembled  :  the  Barkers'  fly,  and  the  Pocklingtons' 
gig,  and  flight-green  market-cart,  stood  in  the  farm- 
yard ;  and  even  at  that  very  moment,  Mr.  Crawley 
drove  up  !     They  were  certainly  late  ! 

Before  they  reached  the  garden-gate,  somebody, 
who  had  seen  them  coming,  had  given  intimation 
thereof;  the  house-door  opened,  and  Mr.  Mark 
Sopworth,  without  his  hat,  scampered  down  the 
garden-alley  to  open  the  little  gate  for  them.  The 
lower  windows  of  the  house  were  filled  with  faces, 
young  and  old,  all  smiling  a  welcome  ;  old  Mr.  Sop- 
worth  hobbling  on  his  sticks,  for,  after  all,  his  rhcu- 
matigm  was  not  quite  gone,  came  outside  the  door  to 
F 


60  A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

meet  them ;  while  the  mistress  of  the  house,  dressed 
in  lilac  bombazine,  and  a  cap  trimmed  with  green 
gauze,  was  heard,  even  before  she  was  seen,  with  wel- 
comes, and  upbraidings  for  their  lateness,  intermixed. 

They  were  the  last  arrivals,  and  great  was  the 
ceremony  of  introduction.  Mrs.  Morland,  who  con- 
sidered herself  the  chaperone  of  Mary  AVheeler,  had 
no  little  pleasure  in  her  good  looks ;  her  dress  un- 
questionably became  her,  it  was  new  and  pretty;  and, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  influence  of  her  good,  not  to 
sny  happy,  spirits  that  day,  the  walk  in  the  fresli  air 
had  given  a  glow  to  her  cheek,  and  a  brightness  to 
her  eye,  that  made  her  really  lovely.  At  the  first 
glance,  Mrs.  Morland  preferred  her  infinitely  to 
Barbara  Pocklington.  Nor  was  Mrs.  Morland  alone 
in  her  admiration  ;  , there  was  a  vacant  chair  by  Bar- 
bara Pocklington,  where,  no  doubt,  Mark  had  been 
sitting  before  their  arrival ;  but,  though  it  was  left 
vacant,  still  he  did  not  take  it,  but  stood  leaning 
with  his  elbow  on  the  chimney-piece,  pretending  to 
talk  to  Mr.  Morland,  but,  with  an  eye  of  undisguised 
delight,  glancing  continually  at  Mary,  who  was  seated 
on  a  sofa  between  two  elderly  ladies,  listening  to  a 
long  history  of  somebody,  who  had  the  day  before 
fallen  sick  of  a  quinsey. 

Dinner,  however,  was  announced  ;  and  as  all  things 
were  done  with  perfect  propriety  that  day  at  the 
Sopworths',  each  gentleman  took  in  a  lady,  and  Mrs. 
Morland  had  the  great  pleasure  of  seeing  ]\Ir.  Mark 
start  forward  to  her  protegee^  leaving  the  stout  and 
dashing-looking  Barbara  Pocklington  to  his  younger 
brother. 

We  are  not  going  to  describe  the  dinner,  though 


A  MERRY  CHRIST3IAS  DAY.  51 

there  is  no  doubt  whatever  but  that  the  Sepworths* 
Christmas  dinner  miglit  have  served  as  a  model  for  all 
Christmas  dinners  whatever,  that  were  destined  to 
come  after  it.  It  was,  indeed,  a  capital  dinner!  and 
the  wonder  was,  how  people,  ^after  they  had  eaten 
and  drank  so  much,  could  ever  think  of  eating  again, 
at  least  for  fuur-and-twenty  hours  ;  spite  of  which, 
however,  both  Mr.  Sopworth  and  his  wife  did  nothing 
but  protest  all  the  dinner-time,  that  nobody  ate  any- 
thing ;  that  they  feared  their  friends  did  not  enjoy 
their  dinner;  that  they  wished  it  had  been  better; 
but  that,  such  as  it  was,  they  were  heartily  welcome, 
as  they  only  wished  people  would  show  that  they 
felt!  Amid  all  the  eating  and  drinking,  and  the 
pressing  to  eat  more,  and  the  protesting  that  indeed 
they  had  quite  done — that  they  had  never  eaten  such 
a  dinner  before  in  all  their  lives — and  after  Mrs. 
Pocklington  had  declared  that  she  must  have  the 
receipt  for  the  forced-meat  balls,  which  encircled,  like 
a  string  of  precious  stones,  tlie  dibh  of  roast  turkey  ; 
and  after  Mrs.  Morland  had  begged  for  the  receipt  for 
mince-pies,  the  dinner  came  to  a  close.  The  gentle- 
men walked  out,  and  the  ladies  sat  and  chatted,  and 
talked  of  the  rest  of  the  company,  which  was 
expected  to  come  in  for  tea. 

When  the  gentlemen  came  back  to  the  house,  the 
shutters  were  all  closed,  even  though,  by  this  means, 
the  full  moon  was  excluded.  If,  however,  the  glo- 
rious Christmas  moonlight  was  concealed  from  within, 
other  objects,  if  less  poetical,  of  an  extremely  agree- 
able kind,  began  to  present  themselves.  The  plenti- 
ful tea-table  was  spread,  candles  were  lighted,  and 
every  polished  leaf  of  holly  on  mantel- piece  and  in 
window,  shone  lustrously. 


52  A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  DAY- 

Never  did  anything  look  so  cheei-ful  and  inspiriting 
as  the  great  kitclien,  as  it  was  called,  and  where 
they  had  just  dined,  witli  its  large  dresser  filled  with 
shining  pewter-ware,  and  all  decorated  with  holly 
and  ivy  twigs ;  its  large  pendent  kissing  bush  which 
swung  from  the  ceiling ;  its  chairs  ranged  all  round, 
side  by  side ;  its  table  cleared  away,  leaving  ample 
space  for  dance  or  merry  games,  and  suggestive  of 
these  things  at  the  same  time ;  to  say  nothing  of  the 
young  gills  laughing  merrily,  and  walking  about  arm- 
in-arm,  as  if,  when  seen  in  connection  with  the 
swinging  mistletoe,  to  bring  tempting  thoughts  of 
kisses  stolen  from  rosy  lips,  or  from  round  and  blushing 
cheeks,  to  the  mind.  So  looked  everytliing  when  the 
door  opened,  in  answer  to  the  loud  laughter  and 
talking  of  the  returning  gentlemen,  and  there,  actu- 
ally, as  Mrs.  Morland  came  to  the  parlour-door,  which 
opened  into  the  great  kitchen,  what  should  she  see, 
but  Barbara  Pocklington  and  Mary  Wheeler  walking 
arm-in-arm  up  and  down,  as  if  there  were  no  such 
things  as  gentlemen  in  this  world,  and  as  if  rivalry, 
and  least  of  all  rivalry  in  love,  was  the  last  thing 
that  could  agitate  their  hearts  ! 

The  gentlemen  were  heard  talking  and  laughing  as 
they  approached  the  house  ;  they  seemed  to  taks  the 
door  by  storm,  and  entered  quite  tumultuously.  Mary 
and  Barbara  walked  oh  still,  as  if  such  wild  animals 
as  these  were  quite  below  their  notice  ;  when,  behold  I 
just  as  if  by  the  merest  accident  in  this  world,  they 
passed  under  the  mistletoe;  and  at  that  very  moment, 
an  arm  of  Mark  Sopworth,  who  had  stolen  behind 
unperceived,  was  clasped  round  the  waist  of  each, 
and  the  audacious  young  man  kissed  the  cheeks  of 
both  girls. 


A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  PAY.  53 

"  Oh,  for  shame  !"  exclaimed  both,  starting  sud- 
denly away. 

"  Bravo,  Mark  1"  said  half-a-dozen  voices-;  and  then 
a  company  of  young  girls,  who  had  been  invited  for 
the  evening,  came  in  with  their  mothers,  bonneted 
and  cloaked ;  and  before  they  were  aware  of  where 
they  were,  or  what  was  going  on,  all  found  themselves 
under  the  mistletoe,  and  declared,  every  one  of  them, 
"  that  they  never  could  have  thought  of  such  a  thing 
' — that  they  never  were  so  surprised  before  in  all  their 
lives;  and  that,  really,  the  gentlemen  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  themselves !" 

There  was  such  a  clamour  of  tongues,  and  such 
shrieks  and  laughter,  as  never  were  heard  in  any  great 
kitchen  before,  since  great  kitchens  were  built !  It 
was  a  long  time  before  this  Babel  subdued  itself 
sufficiently  to  render  audible  old  Mrs.  Sopworth's 
voice,  which  kept  uttering, ''  Do,  gentlemen,  walk  in 
to  tea !  Do,  ladies,  walk  into  the  parlour  and  find 
seats  !"  At  last,  however,  one  heard,  and  then 
another,  and  presently  the  comfurtable  carpeted  par- 
lour, with  its  great  gingham-covered  sofa  and  window- 
curtain?!,  received  them  all ;  but  then  it  was  found  to 
be  so  full,  that  really  it  was  like  a  crowd  at  a  fair. 
But,  no  matter  fur  that  !  "  The  more  the  merrier!" 
said  first  one,  and  then  another,  till  the  sentiment  was 
quite  universal ;  so  those  sate  who  could  find  seats, 
and  those  stood  who  could  not,  protesting,  with  all 
their  might,  that  if  the  room  were  ten  times  as  big, 
and  brimful  of  chairs,  they  would  rather  stand — 
that,  indeed,  they  would  ! 

"  Where  is  my  son  Mark  1"  asked  old  Mr.  i?op- 
worth,  from   his   arm-chair  by  the  fire,  where  h« 
f2 


64  A  MERRY  CHRISTM-AS  DAV. 

sate  talking  of  "  fat  stock,"  and  "oorn-iriarkets,"  with 
old  Mr.  Pocklington.  "  He  has  got  the  Mark-Lnn€ 
Express  in  his  pocket.  1  wonder,  now,  where  he  is," 
said  he,  looking  round.  "  Lizzy,"  said  lie,  addressing 
his  daughter,  "  ask  your  brother  Mark  for  the 
paper." 

"  Have  you  seen  Mark  X'  asked  she,  from  Barbara 
Pocklington;  "it's  very  odd,  but  he's  not  in  the 
room." 

"  1  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Barbara  ;  "  I  saw 
him  come  in,  though." 

"  Mark  !"  cried  Miss  Lizzy,  loud  enough  not  only 
to  be  heard  by  all  the  company,  but  to  draw  every- 
body's attention  to  her. 

"  Do  you  hear,  Mr.  Mark  ?"  said  a  voice,  softly, 
behind  the  long  gingham  window-curtains,  which  fell 
over  the  window. 

"  I  hear,"  returned  he,  and  laughed  and  rubbed  hia 
hands,  &s  if  the  joke  were  capital. 

"  Mark  !"  again  cried  Lizzy ;  and  just  at  that 
moment  a  mischievous  gentleman  drew  apart  the 
curtains,  one  in  each  hand,  and  there  stood  Mark 
Sopworth  and  Mary  "Wheeler ! 

Mark  laughed  louder  than  he  had  ever  laughed 
before,  and  so  did  everybody ;  while  poor  Mary 
blushed  crimson,  and  thought  that  she  looked  ex^ 
tremely  foolish.  From  that  moment,  Barbara  PjocIc- 
lington  hated  her.  Mrs.  Barker  inquired  from  her 
neighbour  whether  she  did  not  think  that  Miss 
Wheeler  had  been  flirting  shamefully  all  day  with 
Mr.  Mark ;  and  old  Mrs.  Pocklington  said  to  hers, 
that  "she  should  be  very  much  ashamed,  if  a  daughter 
of  hers  behaved  as  Miss  Wheeler  did  1" 


A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  DAY.  5fi 

It  was  a  very  merry  evening,  and  games  of  all 
kinds  were  played — hunt-the-slipper,  blind-man's- 
buff,  and  cross-questions  and  crooked-answers ;  and 
then  came  the  merriest  of  all — the  redeeming  the 
forfeits. 

Mrs.  Barker,  it  was  voted,  was  to  hold  the  forfeits 
in  her  lap,  and  Lizzy  Sopworth  was  to  kneel  before 
her  and  prescribe  tlie  penalty  for  each. 

*'  Now,  what  shall  the  owner  of  this  do  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Barker,  holding  a  something  in  her  hand. 

*'  Lady  or  gentleman  ?"  inquired  Lizzy. 

Mrs.  Barker  stooped  down  as  if  to  look  at  what 
she  had,  but  whispered  the  name  "  Barbara"  into  her 
ear,  and  then  replied  aloud,  "  The  owner  is  a  lady." 

"  She  shall  go  round  the  company,"  replied  Miss 
Lizzy,  "  and  inquire  from  each  '  what  they  would 
write  on  her  heart,  if  it  were  a  sheet  of  paper  ?'  " 

"■"It  is  yours,  Barbara!"  said  Mrs.  Barker,  holding 
forth,  at  the  same  time,  a  small  and  very  pretty  glove. 

"  It  is  not  mine  ! "  said  Barbara,  who  had  advanced 
half-way  to  her  sister,  ''I  believe  it  is  Miss  Wheeler's." 

"  Mary  "NVheeler,  are  you  the  owner  of  thi*glove  ?" 
asked  Lizzy  Sopworth. 

"  It  is  mine,"  said  Mary,  and  then  commenced  her 
round. 

"  If  my  heart  A\ere  a  sheet  of  paper,  what  would 
you  write  on  it  ?"  asked  she,  in  the  first  place,  from 
Mrs.  Barker. 

"  The  words  of  a  song  which  I  have  heard  you 
eing," returned  she,  somewhat  tartly,  "Behave  your- 
scl'  be  ore  folk." 

"  And  you,  dear  Mrs.  Sopworth  ?"  asked  she,  from 
the  friendly  old  lady. 


56  A  MERRY  CIIRISTfllAS  DAY. 

"  What  would  I  write  1"  repeated  she.  "  Oh,  I  'm 
no  hand  at  writing — I  'd  make  out  what  gentleman 
was  highest  in  your  books,  and  hand  the  pen  to 
him." 

"  Well  done,  mother  1"  said  Mark ;  and  all  the 
Pocklingtons  thought  Mary  a  greater  flirt  than  ever. 

*'  And  if  my  heart  were  paper,  what  would  you 
write  on  it.  Miss  Pocklington  ?"  asked  she,  from 
Barbara's  unmarried  sister. 

"  1  ?"  returned  she,  as  if  offended  by  the  question  ; 
"  what  would  be  the  sense  of  my  writing  anything  ? 
I  would  hand  it  over  to  Mr.  Mark  Sopworth." 

It  was  beginning  to  get  quite  too  personal,  and 
Mary  felt  confused,  especially  as  Mark  Sopworth 
himself  came  next.  "  And  you,  Mr.  Mark?"  asked 
she,  almost  tremulously,  "  what,  if  my  heart  were 
blank  paper,  would  you  write  on  it  ?" 

»"  I  would  write,"  said  he,  in  a  half- whisper,  "all 
that  I  wish  that  heart  to  feel — what  I  wish  to  say- 
yet  dare  not/'  added  he,  in  a  whisper,  meant  only  for 
her  ear. 

"  Faint  heart  never  deserves  fair  lady,  does  it, 
Miss  Wheeler  ?"  asked  Mr.  Morland,  quite  loud,  who, 
having  a  remarkably  quick  sense  of  hearing,  had 
caught  every  word. 

"  ^Vbat  did  Mr.  Mark  say  V  asked  Mrs.  Barker. 

"  Something  quite  too  stupid  to  be  repeated,"  re- 
turned he. 

"  It  was  not  so  very  stupid  either!— was  it,  now, 
Miss  Wheeler  ?"  said  Mr.  Morland,  chuckling. 

"  I  need  not  go  all  round,"  said  Mary  Wheeler; 
'*  I  am  sure  I  have  done  quite  enough  to  redeem  two 
gloves  instead  of  one." 


A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  DAY.  67 

The  company  agi-eed  that  she  had ;  and  Mrs. 
Barker  tossed  the  glove  to  her,  and  began  crying 
another  forfeit;  never  seeing,  as  our  own  Mrs.  Mor- 
land  di  1,  that  Mark  Sopworth  caught  the  glove 
instead  of  Mary  ;  and,  instead  of  giving  it  to  her,  put 
it^into  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"  What  sliall  the  owner  of  this  do  X'  asked  Mrs. 
Barker. 

"  Lady  or  gentleman  ?"  inquired  Lizzy. 

"  Gentleman,"  returned  Mrs.  Barker. 

"He  must  bow  to  the  wittiest, kneel  to  the  prettiest, 
and  kiss  the  one  he  loves  best." 

"  It  is  Mark's  !"  exclaimed  his  sister,  looking  at 
the  cigar-case  which  Mrs.  Barker  held.  "  Mark,  you 
have  heard  your  penalty." 

"  That  is  soon  done !"  said  he,  starting  from  his 
chair,  and,  at  the  same  moment,  both  Mary  "W^heeler 
and  Barbara  Pocklington  felt  as  if  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  company  were  on  them. 

"  No,"  said  Mark,  the  moment  afterwards,  "  I  've 
changed  my  mind — I  won't  do  it." 

"  You  must  !  you  must  !"  stormed  on  all  sides. 

"  You  shall  never  Iwve  your  cigar-case  again,  if 
you  do  not,"  said  Mrs.  Barker. 

"  Never,  as  long  as  you  live  !"  said  his  sister. 

"  Then  I  '11  go  without  i^"  said  he,  folding  his 
arms,  as  if  in  token  how  determined  he  was  to  keep 
his  word  ;  "  for  where  all  are  so  witty  and  so  pretty, 
how  is  it  possible  to  make  a  choice  ;  and  then,  unless 
I  may  kiss  all  round,  I  '11  kiss  none."  And  with  this, 
Mark  unfolded  his  arms  again,  and  looked  first  at  one 
and  then  at  another  pretty  girl,  as  if  he  were  half  in 
the  min<i  to  do  as  he  said. 


58  A  BIERRY  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

**  Oh,  Mr.  Mark  !"  exclaimed  or.e,  and  "  Now,  did 
one  ever !"  exclaimed  another,  and  "  Don't  let  him 
have  his  forfeit  back  !"  exclaimed  half-a-dozen  at 
once  ;  and  then  amid  all  this  confusion  of  tongues  and 
laughter,  supper  was  announced. 

Three  or  four  gentlemen  sang  songs  after  supper, 
among  whom  Mr.  Morland  figured  to  the  greatest 
advantage  ;  and  then  three  or  four  ladies  did  the 
same ;  and  then,  so  enthusiastic  did  the  whole  com- 
pany get,  that  they  all  sang  in  chorus. 

'■'  Would  you  really  believe  it !"  at  last  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Morland,  looking  at  her  watch,  *' that  it  is 
actually  half-past  two  1" 

The  Sopworths  declared  that  that  was  not  late, 
and  everybody  else  protested,  that  never  before  in  all 
their  lives  had  they  heard  of  such  a  thing !  that  it 
was  shockingly  late  ;  that  they  ought  to  be  quite 
ashamed  of  themselves,  and  twenty  other  such 
things. 

It  took  a  long  time  to  cloak  and  bonnet  such  a  large 
company  ;  and  it  took  a  long  time,  too,  before  the 
flies,  and  gigs,  and  shandrydans  were  all  brought  out 
of  the  yard,  and  drawn  up  to  the  garden-gate.  The 
Morlands  had  a  fly  sent  from  the  town  to  fetch  them  ; 
and  of  course  Mary  Wheeler  went  with  them,  while 
young  Sop  worth,  the*  doctor's  apprentice,  who  was 
obliged  to  be  back  that  night,  returned,  as  he  Avent, 
with«old  Crawley  in  his  gig. 

"You  can  make  room  for  mc,  too,  cannot  you?" 
said  Mr.  Mark  Sop  worth,  buttoning  up  his  great-coat, 
and  coming  up  to  the  Morlands'.  fly-door. 

"  You  are  not  going  to-night,  Mark !"  exclaimed 
his  mother  and  sister,  who  both  stood  at  the  garden- 


A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  HAY,  6S 

gate,  with  candles  in  their  hand,  although  the  moon 
shone  bright. 

"  We  can  give  you  the  seat  which  you  will  like 
ahove  all  others,"  returned  Mr.  Morland,  who  smelt 
prodigiously  strong  of  wine  and  br^indy-and-water— • 
*'  the  seat  opposite  Miss  Wheeler." 

Mark  sprang  into  the  carriage  ;  his  sister  said  it 
was  too  bad  that  he  left  her  to  walk  alone  in  the 
morning;  the  carriage-door  was  shut,  and* off  drove 
the  Morlands,  not  a  little  pleasecT  with  their  Christ- 
mas-day's entertainment. 

"  Poor  Mr.  Mark  !"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  a  few  days 
afterwards,  and  when  Mary  and  she  next  met,  *'  he 
lost  his  heart  on  Wednesday  evening,  and  you  lost 
your  glove." 

Mary  smiled,  and  blushed,  as  she  always  did,  and 
then,  loosening  the  strings  of  her  black  silk  bag,  took 
out  a  neat  little  packet,  which  appeared  to  have  been 
sealed  ;  it  contained  a  really  beautiful  pair  of  French 
kid  gloves.  "  I  wanted  to  show  you  these,"  said 
she,  opening  the  little  packet ;  "  Mr.  Mark  sent  them 
to  me  ^vith  a  note  ;  he  had  lost  mine,  he  said,  and 
sent  me  these  instead;  it  is  a  good  exchange  for  me, 
for  mine  were  not  new  ; — and  then,  really,  it  was  so 
nicely  done  !" 

*'  Everything  is  nicely  done,  that  is  done  by  those 
we  love,''  said  Mrs.  Morland  ;  "  but,  really,  those  are 
beautiful  gloves,"  said  she,  looking  at  them  ;  "  and,  I 
dare  say,  there  was  something  very  particular  in  the 
note — now,  I  hate  mysteries,  so  you  must  tell  me  all 
about  it,  for  I  see,  by  your  blushes,  that  you  have 
something  to  tell." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said   Mary,  looking  crimson  as  a  red 


60  A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

rose,  '*  indeed  I  have  nothing  so  very  particular  to 
tell  you.  There  was  this  with  the  gloves,  and  thak 
was  all/' 

Mrs.  Morland  opened  the  gilt-edged  sheet  of  note 
paper  whicli  Mary  handed  to  her,  and  read,  in  a  verj 
neat  tradesman's  hand,  four  lines,  meant  to  be  poetry, 
in  which  "heart"  rhymed  with  "  smart,"  and  "glove* 
with  "love."  She  felt  rather  disappointed  that  i< 
was  not  a  <lirect  declaration  of  love ;  but  never  doubt- 
ing but  that  that,  too,  ■would  come  in  due  season,  said 
'it  was  very  pretty,  and  that  she  was  sure  Mr.  Mark 
would  set  quite  as  much,  if  not  more,  etore  by  the 
old  glove  than  she  would  by  the  new  ones. 


CHAPTER  V. 


A    RETURN    IN    KIND. 


"Will  you,  dearest  Mrs.  Morland,"  said  Mary- 
Wheeler  to  her  one  evening,  not  very  long  after  the 
Christmas  entertainment,  which  we  have  chronicled 
in  our  last  chapter,  "  tell  me  something  about  your 
early  life  and  experience  ?" 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  my  dear  child !"  said  Mrs. 
Morland,  "  I  have  nothing  in  the  world  to  tell !" 

"  Nor  had  I,"  returned  she ;  "  and  yet  you  said  that 
you  found  that  which  I  told  you  interesting ;  do  talk 
about  yourself  to-night,  or  I  shall  be  ashamed  of 
what  I  have  done,  and  think  I  wearied  you  by  talk- 
ing 80  much  about  myself." 

"  If  it  is  on  this  condition,"  replied  Mrs.  Morland, 
smiling,  "  I  will  tell  you  all  that  by  any  possibilitv  I 


A  RETURN  IN  KIND.  61 

ean  remember  about  myself,  just  to  prove  with  what 
delight  and  good-will  I  listened  to  you. 

*'  My  fatV»er,  then,^  you  must  know,  was  curate  of 
a  rich  living  in  Cumberland, — the  living  was  rich, 
but  he  was  only  a  poor  curate.  This  parish  wa» 
large,  and  the  population,  though  scanty,  was  widely 
scattered  ;  and  as  my  father  desired  conscientiously 
to  perform  his  duties  as  pastor  of  his  people,  his  life 
was  one  neither  of  ease  nor  indulgence.  He  was  a 
singularly  learned  man;  and  had  he  been  a  bishop,  or 
even  a  wealthy  rector,  he  would  no  doubt  have  made 
his  name  famous  among  the  scholars  of  the  age.  In 
many  respects,  however,  my  father  was  not  a  happy 
man ;  he  had  expected  preferment  in  his  younger 
years ;  he  had  been  promised  it,  but  had  been  dis- 
appointed ;  he  had  hoped  and  hoped,  but  in  his 
middle  life  he  was  only  a  curate  still ;  and,  somewhat 
soured  with  the  world,  but  yet  with  the  elements  of 
satisfaction  in  himself,  had  fortune  only  favoured  him 
in  other  respects,  he  settled  himself  in  his  curacy,  and 
devoted  himself,  body  and  mind,  to  study,  which  soon 
became  his  greatest  earthly  delight,  and  thus  found 
enjoyment  m  his  books,  and  peace  of  mind  in  the 
performance  of  his  pastoral  duties.  The  misfortune 
of  my  father,  however,  was  not  his  worldly  disap- 
pointment, but  his  having  married  a  wife  unfitted  for 
him.  She  was  in  every  respect  a  worldly  woman  ; 
and,  courting  distinction  in  the  world,  despised  my 
father,  who  seemed  contented  with  his  humble  lot. 
Had  my  father  been  a  stern,  overbearing  man,  or  even 
in  degree  less  amiable  and  yielding  than  he  was,  he 
would  have  gained  more  respect,  if  not  more  affection, 
from  my  mothe?  As  it  was,  they  were  singularly 
o 


82  A  RETURN  IN  KIND. 

unhappy,  and  the  remembrances  of  my  early  life, 
unlike  yours,  Mary,  are  of  domestic  disunion  and 
bickering.  But  we  were  poor — of  ihat  there  is  no 
doubt ;  and  I  have  always  foOnd,"  said  she,  "  that 
though  fortune  may,  and  does,  no  doubt,  bring  with  it 
its  train  of  discontents,  no  discontent,  no  wear  and 
tear  of  temper,  is  like  that  which  a  narrow  income 
brings  with  it,  and  especially  when  there  is  one 
member  of  the  family  troubled  by  ambition  and  love 
of  show,  as  my  poor  dear  mother  was.  My  father 
promised,  that  in  case  his  family  was  large,  he  would 
again  sue  for  preferment,  or  at  least  increase  of 
income ;  but  year  after  year  went  on,  and  though  he 
said  he  would  do  it,  he  never  did  ;  my  mother  could 
not  understand  his  feelings  on  this  subjict,  and  had 
no  forbearance  with  him.  Poor  man  !  the  sanctuary 
to  which  he  fled  from  all  his  vexations,  worldly  and 
domestic,  was  his  study  ;  there  he  passed  most  of  his 
time,  and  there  I  believe  he  was  happv.  His  books 
were  his  true  friends  ;  they  had  not  deceived  him ; 
they  counselled  him  in  trouble,  and  infused  gladness 
into  his  wearie'd  spirit. 

"  Years  went  on,  and  he  lived  in  a  world  of  his 
own,  out  of  which  when  he  came,  he  looked  like  one 
of  tiie  Seven  Sleepers  awakened.  The  family  con- 
sisted of  five  boys  and  myself;  and  my  father,  as 
well  as  my  mother,  saw  the  necessity  of  something 
being  done  for  us ;  and,  to  better  his  income,  in  a 
Way  much  easier  than  suing  from  the  great,  he  took 
to  authorship.  It  was  exactly  the  life  for  him,  as  it 
furnished  him  with  the  most  plausible  and  best  of  all 
possible  excuses  for  shutting  himself  up  in  his  study  ; 
but,  alas!  though  he  wTote  books  without  end,  they 


A  RETURN  IN  KIND.  63 

were  such  as  nobody  read,  and,  worse  than  ail  such 
as  nobody  bought. 

"  In  many  respects,  there  were  points  of  resem- 
blance between  my  pooi  motlier  and  good  Mi-s.  Prim- 
rose, in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Among  other  things, 
she  aspired  to  intimacy  witli  the  gi^eat  ;  she  would 
visit  with  the  scattered  gentry  of  the  neighbourhood, 
and  scorned  all  under  the  pretension  of  esquire  ;  she 
knew  her  husband  to  be  a  learned  man,  and  she 
expected  fame,  if  not  fortune,  from  his  works.  Such, 
at  least,  were  her  earlier  aspirations.  But  disap- 
pointment on  disappointment  cools  the  most  sanguine- 
hearted  ;  and,  alas  !  not  only  cools,  but  often  embitters 
also.  It  was  so  in  my  poor  mother's  case  :  unable  to 
visit  with  the  rich,  she  despised  the  humbler  class,  and 
thus  came  to  be  disliked  by  the  parishioners.  From 
her  upbraidings,  my  father  took  refuge  in  his  study, 
and  buried  himself  still  deeper  in  his  books.  Often, 
for  days  and  days,  not  a  word  passed  between  my 
parents  ;  my  father  forgot,  or  seemed  to  forget,  his  do- 
mestic annoyances  there ;  and  this,  to  an  irrita])le  tem- 
perament like  luy  mother's,  seemed  an  additional  wrong. 

"  My  five  brothers  ran  wild  like  untamed  colts; 
my  mother  thought  and  said,  that,  as  boys,  they  were 
my  father's  charge,  whilst  I,  as  a  daughter,  belonged 
especially  to  her ;  and  to  me  she  unhappily  soon 
looked  as  to  the  future  prosperity  of  the  family. 
Poor  thing  !  she  fancied  me  handsome,  and  a  genius, 
and  God  knows  what !  I  was  as  fond  of  reading  as 
my  father  himself,  and  the  circulating  libraries  of 
the  neighbouring  town  furnished  for  awhile  food  for 
my  inexhaustible  appetite.  I  drew,  as  all  lively 
%hildren  do,  and  my  scrawls  were  exhibited  as  mira- 


64  A  RETURN  IN  KIND. 

cles  of  genius  ;  music  I  began  to  learn,  but  too  impa« 
tient  to  advance,  step  by  step,  in  that  most  difficult  of 
sciences,  I  composed  vagaries  of  my  own,  and  at 
thirteen  set  up  for  a  musical  composer. 

"  I  was,  as  you  may  imagine,  ignorant,  vain,  and 
overbearing,  and  must,  indeed,  have  been  a  most 
detestable  child.  Our  respectable  neiglibours,  offend- 
ed by  my  poor  mother's  pride,  looked  on  me,  as  was 
natural,  with  pity,  if  not  coil*empt.  They  were 
homely  people,  who  thought  homely  virtues  and 
homely  knowledge  the  most  estimable  things  in  life, 
and  they  had  justice.  For  myself,  I  was  helpless  as 
a  child,  in  the  common  business  of  life ;  my  mother* 
blindly  doting  on  me,  as  she  did,  permitted  me  to 
take  no  part  in  household  work  ;  everything  was  done 
for  me,  and  that  by  my  mother,  for  my  time,  she 
believed,  was  much  better  employed  in  those  accom- 
plishments, in  which  I  was,  and  never  could  be  other 
than  the  merest  dabbler,  than  in  learning  either  to 
help  myself  or  others.  Unfortunately,  too,  as  I  said 
before,  she  had  a  great  notion  that  I  was  handsome, 
and  that  my  face,  if  my  genius  failed,  must  make  all 
our  fortunes  ;  all  needlew^ork,  therefore,  was  prohibit- 
ed, lest  1  should  spoil  my  eyes,  or  injure  my  figure 
by  stooping.  I  was  permitted  to  do  no  household 
work  either,  lest  my  hands  should  become  coarse  and 
red.  It  was  in  vain  that  my  poor  father  now  and 
-then  woke  up,  as  it  were,  from  liis  books,  and 
objected  to  my  mode  of  education  :  *  Why  does  not 
Ellen  mend  the  boys'  stockings  ?  why  does  not  Ellen 
do  this,  that,  and  the  other?'  he  would  inquire  ;  and 
then  my  poor  mother,  stung  by  questions  which  were 
not  easy  to  answer,  grew  angry,  and,  in  her  turn, 


A  RETURN  IN  KIND.  65 

upbraided  him  with  the  untamed  wildness  of  her 
sons,  who,  early  in  life,  had  given  both  parents  cause 
of  uneasiness. 

"  We  were  an  unhappy,  disorganised  family ;  and 
my  brothers  seemed  likely  enough  to  bring  lasting 
disgrace  on  the  family,  if  not  on  the  clerical  name 
also  ;  add  to  which,  long  accumulated  debts  threat- 
ened to  conduct  my  poor  father  to  a  prison.  In  this 
crisis  of  affairs,  the  parishioners  complained,  I  believe, 
to  the  rector ;  the  bishop  interfered,  and  my  father 
was  in  a  fair  way  of  losing  his  curacy. 

"  Ruin  stared  us  in  the  face ;  I  was  then  nearly 
seventeen,  and  my  eldest  braiher  nineteen  ;  we  were 
like  people  overtaken  at  once  by  -shipwreck  or  fire  ; 
we  looked  on  and  around,  and  there  was  nothing  but 
ruin  and  dismay. 

"  My  mother  had  a  brother,  a  tradesman,  in  Bristol, 
a  well-to-do  man,  who  often,  in  reply  to  her  com- 
plaining letters,  had  sent  her  a  ten  or  a  twenty 
pound  bill.  To  him,  of  course,  application  was 
made  in  our  distress ;  and  in  reply  to  my  mother's 
letter,  instead  of  writing,  he  came  instantly.  Never 
shall  I  forget  his  arrival,  and  the  influence  of  his 
presence  !  We  were  all  dreamers,  as  it  were,  and  all 
our  actions  M'ere  characterised  by  indecision.  '  What 
IB  to  be  done  ?  what  is  to  become  of  us  ?'  exclaimed 
my  poor  mother,  distractedly.  'Done!*  repeated  my 
uncle ;  '  why,  work  !  Are  not  these  young  people,' 
asked  he,  '  endowed  like  the  rest  of  their  kind  ? — 
hands  have  they,  and  heads — what  would  they  have 
more  V 

"  Three  of  my  brothers  he  sent  off  in  a  few  months' 
Ume  to  Australia,  with  a  hundred  pounds  each ;  and 
g2 


6G  A  RETURN  IN  KIND. 

there,  with  ample  space  for  their  wild  energies,  they 
have  (lone  well.  Me,  without  asking  even  leave  of 
my  parents,  he  took  to  live  with  him,  as  his  own 
housekeeper.  Nobody  thought,  I  believe,  of  object- 
ing to  anything  he  did  :  he  settled  all  as  with  a' 
moment's  thought ;  but  the  truth  is,  he  had  come 
witli  plans  ready  arranged,  and  it  never  entered  his 
head  that  things  could  be  better  than  he  arranged 
them  ;  nor  indeed  could  they. 

"  He  staid  with  us  a  fortnight,  and  in  that  time 
wrought  a  complete  change  in  our  affairs.  He  went 
from  house  to  house,  among  the  parishioners,  and 
everywhere  he  dropped,  as  it  were,  a  seed  of  goodwill 
and  forbearance.  He  went,  also,  quite  unsolicited  by 
my  parents,  both  to  the  rector  and  the  bishop,  and 
said  so  much  in  my  father's  behalf,  as  excited  their 
sympathy  and  kindness  towards  him  ;  the  end  of  all 
w^as,  that  he  was  re-established  in  his  curacy  more 
firmly  than  ever ;  besides  which,  though  he  was  not 
able  to  gain  an  augmentation  of  his  salary,  he  made 
some  little  diddition  to  his  income  from  his  own  purse. 
But  that  which,  after  all,  was  most  to  the  purpose  was, 
that  he  roused  my  father  from  his  learned  lethargy, 
to  feel  and  to  see  the  kindness  and  the  goodwill  of 
those  around  him  ;  and  to  make  my  father  feel  this 
was  to  give  a  new  impulse  to  action,  and  a  new  value 
to  life.  My  mother  made  no  objection  to  anything, 
not  even  to  my  leaving  her ;  but  I  had  been,  it  is  true, 
but  of  very  little  use  to  her.  I  could  do,  compara- 
tively speaking,  nothing !  and  my  uncle  said  that  my 
absence  was  better  for  her  than  my  presence,  at  least 
for  some  time ;  and  that  when  I  returned  to  her,  if 
I  were  fit  for  nothing  better,  I  should  be  fit  for  a 
respectable  man's  wife. 


A  HETURN   IN   KIND.  C? 

**  My  uncle  was  a  very  peculiar  person,  but  one  of  t  he 

wisest  and  shrewdest  of  men.  He  accomplished  that 
which  he  desired,  however  improbable  it  might  at  first 
seem,  not  so  much  by  a  conp-de-mam^  as  by  calmly 
sapping  and  mining,  and  never  being  turned  aside,  or 
daunted  by  any  impediment  whatever;  such  had  been 
his  course  through  life,  and  thus  he  went  to  work  in  our 
affairs.  It  was  thus  that  he  operated  with  my  father's 
parishioners  and  patrons ;  he  did  not  present  himself 
as  his  violent  partisan  and  upholder  through  right 
and  wrong,  overpowering  his  opponents  by  many 
strong  words  and  arguments,  to  prove  my  father 
faultless  :  no  !  but  all  the  while  that  he  was  conced- 
ing and  agreeing,  and  letting  people  think  that  they 
were  having  everything  their  own  way,  he  was,  by 
the  few  kind,  vrise  words  which  he  let  fall  in  the  right 
place,  winning  more  good- will  for  my  father,  than 
anybody  but  himself  supposed.  It  was  so  with  my 
parents  themselves  ;  he  never  seemed  to  blame  either 
one  or  the  other  of  them,  nor  yet  did  he  set  about  to 
convince  them  either  of  this  or  that;  and  yet  he  ended 
by  making  them  think  exactly  with  himself,  and  take 
different  views  of  life,  and  its  business,  to  what  they 
seemed  to  have  done  before;  and  if  they  did  not,  here- 
after, always  act  in  concert,  at  least  they  dated  a  new 
era  of  domestic  happiness  and  comfort  from  that  time. 
It  is  i-emarkable,  that  after  then,  my  father  wrote  no 
tnore  books,  and  my  mother  condescended  to  visit 
such  families  in  the  parish  as  did  not  write  esquire 
to  their  names.  My  three  elder  brothers,  as  I  told 
you,  have  all  become  respectable  men  in  their  colonial 
life,  and,  of  my  two  younger  ones,  tlie  one  is  in  my 
uncle's  service,  and  the  other  has  taken  a  bachelor'i 
degree  in  the  Universitv  of  Cambrida**  " 


68  A  RETURN  IN  KIND. 

'*And  with  yourself,"  said  Mary  Wheeler,  "h 
must  have  gone  equally  v.-ell." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morland.  "  But  only  think  of 
me,  a  romantic,  inexperienced  girl,  ignorant  as  a 
child  of  cvcry-day  business,  with  the  notion  that  I 
was  handsome,  and  a  genius,  and,  heaven  knows  what 
of  other  absurdities,  brought  at  once  into  a  large 
house,  and  being  told  that  I  must  consider  myself  as 
the  mistress  of  it ;  that  much  would  be  required  from 
me,  and  but  very  little  excused  !  I  was,  mdeea, 
frightened  almost  out  of  my  senses  ;  and  yet,  on  our 
journey  to  Bristol,  which  was  made  leisurely,  in  *rder 
that  I  might  see  something  of  the  country,  and  the 
places  through  which  we  went,  he  had  so  far  excited 
my  respect,  not  to  say  reverence,  for  him,  that  I 
accepted  my  oflfice,  sincerely  determined  to  do  my 
best.  My  uncle  did  not,  as  so  many  would  have 
done, — who,  with  half  his  acuteness  must  have  seen 
what  a  poor  creature  I  was, — humble  me,  and  depre- 
ciate what  little  knowledge  I  had  ;  on  the  contrary, 
he  gave  me  credit  for  all  the  knowledge  which  I  ought 
to  have  possessed,  and,  when  I  l)lundered  and  failed^ 
he  purposely  shut  his  eyes.  What  he  saw  of  arro- 
gance and  folly  in  me,  and,  heaven  knows !  he  must 
have  seen  a  deal,  he  never  spoke  of  it,  or  even  reproved 
it,  but,  by  the  most  extraordinary  tact,  set  things 
before  me  at  once  in  their  true  and  most  beautiful 
light.  I  was  humbled,  but  ennobled  at  the  same  time; 
a  new  life,  useful,  and  good,  and  real,  seemed  opened 
before  me,  in  which  I  longed  to  become  an  actor. 
He  was  satisfied  to  awaken  the  better  part  of  my 
nature,  without  asking  my  confidence.  I  made,  thus, 
no  confessions,  either  of  regret  for  the  past,  or  of 
resolve  for  the  future:  but  esteem  and  affection  filled 


A    RETURN  IN  KIND.  09 

my  heart,  and  they  did  most  to  make  my  good  reso- 
titions  effectual. 

"  However  much  my  uncle  must  have  blamed  my 
jarents,  and  especially  my  mother,  for*  my  faulty 
education,  not  one  word  was  evsr  spoken  by  him 
to  their  disparagement ;  on  the  contrary,  he  used 
all  his  endeavours  to  keep  alive  our  family  affec- 
tion, and  was  very  exact  in  my  writing  regularly 
home/' 

"  What  an  excellent  man ! "  exclaimed  Alary 
Wheeler. 

''  Excellent,  indeed !"  returned  Mrs.  Morland. 
"Spirits  such  as  his  are  the  very  salt  of  the  earth.  But 
to  continue  my  narrative  : — '  On  the  last  stage  of  our 
journey,  my  uncle  first  began  to  speak  of  that  which 
he  had  done  for  my  famil3\  I  expressed  my  gratitude 
with  tears.  '1  mention  this  only,'  said  he,  'in  order 
that  you  may  understand  why  your  duties  in  my 
house  are  as  arduous  and  responsible  as  you  will  find 
them.  Hitherto,  I  have  kept  a  hired  housekeeper ; 
I  cannot  afford  that  longer;  you  must  supply  her 
place,  and  thus  you  will  confer  real  service  on  me. 
The  keys  of  all  that  my  house  contains  will  be  put 
into  your  hands.  I  require  order,  regularity,  and 
propriety;  without  these  1  cannot  live.  You  will 
endeavour  to  please  me,  and  you  will  succeed.' 

"  My  uncle's  manner  was  always  so  firm  yet  calm, 
that,  while  it  excited  no  opposition  in  the  mind  of 
the  hearer,  it  had  the  power  of  assuring  and  of 
inspiring  self-respect.  Thus  it  was,  that  I  was  not 
discouraged  on  entering  on  my  new,  and,  really 
responsible  duties,  ignorant  and  inexperienced  as  I 
had  come   to  know  myself;  nor,  though  I  was,  at 


70  A  RETURN  IN  KIND 

first,  almost  too  anxious,  and  too  much  frightened  to 
sleep,  <]\d  I  despair  of  sucooeding  in  the  end. 

"  A  large  house,  as-1  told  you,  was  put  under  my 
charge.  I  had  two  servants  to  manage,  and  a  house- 
hold of  five  persons,  independently  of  servants,  to 
provide  for.  T  found,  however,  c  rder  and  precision  in 
the  whole  establishment.  '  A  place  for  everything, 
and  everything  in  its  place,*  was  my  uncle's  watch- 
word. H^  took  me  over  the  whole  place  the  day 
after  my  arrival ;  showed  me  into  every  chest,  and 
drawer,  and  closet,  of  the  house,  and,  in  a  few  clear 
sentences,  laid  down  a  plan  of  household  management 
for  me.  He  had  the  rare,  but  great  gift  of  expressing 
himself  in  very  few  words;  and  thus  all  was  clear  and 
definite  from  the  bcgiiming.  My  heart  almost  died 
within  me,  when  I  saw  that  whicli  devolved  upon  me, 
more  especially  when,  in  a  few  days'  time,  my  uncle 
brought  a  piece  of  linen — which  I  had  to  make  Into 
shirts,  and  wool — which  I  was  to  knit  into  stockings, 
and  table-linen — which  I  had  to  mark.  I  was  un- 
skilled with  my  needle,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
could  neither  back-stitch  nor  make  button-hole^, 
and  as  for  knitting — I  hardly  knew  how  to  hold  my 
needles.  Not  the  least  notice,  however,  did  my  uncle 
take  of  the  consternation  depicted  in  my  countenance, 
but  only  remarked,  that  he  was  in  no  great  hurry  for 
these  things;  if  all  were  done  in  a  year's  time,  that 
wns  enough.  1  suspected,  what  was  really  the  case, 
that  my  uncle  knew  how  woefully  ignorant  I  was  of 
these  common  things,  and  I  was  piqued  to  let  him 
fiiui  me  cleverer  than  he  imagined.  I  practised  my 
ne  die,  therefore,  in  private;  unpicked  the  whole  of  a 
shirtj  that  I  might  the  better  understand  the  making 


A  RETURN  IN  KIND.  71 

of  one,  and,  in  process  of  time,  felt  not  a  little  vain  in 
seeing  the  work  proceeding  regularly  and  well,  in 
his  presence. 

My  uncle  spent  his  evenings  mostly  at  home  ;  a 
/outh,  whom  he  hired  for  the  purpose,  came  in 
regularly  from  six  till  nine  to  read  aloud  to  him. 
Newspapers,  history,  and  travels,  were  his  favourite 
reading  ;  and  whilst  he  listened  he  drank  his  coffee, 
which  was  his  favourite  beverage.  He  required  me 
to  be  always  present  at  this  reading,  and  to  employ 
myself  the  while  at  needlework. 

*■'  All  the  powers  of  my  genius  ceased  the  moment 
I  entered  my  uncle's  house.  I  neither  drew,  nor 
painted,  nor  composed  music.  I  wrote  neither  poetry 
nor  romances  ;  nor  had  I  time  to  read  those  written 
by  other  people.  Someway,  I  don't  know  how,  I 
lost  my  relish  for  these  things ;  I  despised  my  own 
miserable  attempts  at  the  whole  range  of  the  fine  arts, 
and,  like  an  appetite  which  has  been  satiated  with 
sweets,  I  turned  with  ten-fold  relish  to  solid  and 
substantial  things.  I  mentally  hungered  and  thirsted 
after  strengthening  literature  and  improving  know- 
ledge. My  whole  being  seemed  to  respond  to  my 
desires;  whatever  I  did,  or  heard,  or  saw,  seemed  to 
,  unfold  new  and  ennobling  views  of  life,  and  to  make 
that  clear  which  had  been  hitherto  dark  and  confused. 
My  heart  was  cheerful  in  the  consciousness  tiiat  my 
life  was  and  would  be  useful ;  and  every  day  developed 
powers  in  me  of  which  I  had  had  no  conception, 
and  which  I  had  hitherto  envied  in  others. 

"  You  must  not,  however,  imagine,  dear  Mary,** 
•aid  Mrs.  Morland,  "  that,  with  all  my  ignorance  and 
inexperience,  my  uncle  had  nothing  to  excuse  or  over- 


12  A  RETURN  IN  KIND. 

look.  I'll  tell  you,"  said  she,  laughing  merrily, 
**  what  an  affair  I  made  of  the  dinner  I  first  arranged 
and  cooked  for  my  uncle  and  three  gentlemen,  fricndg 
of  his.  '  Now,  my  dear,'  said  he,  '  to-morrow  I  bring 
three  gentlemen  to  dinner;  I  wisli  something  plain 
and  nice — soup — a  roast — something  boiled  if  you 
will — and  a  pudding ;  that  is  quite  enough.'  I  ha(i 
no  cook  ;  all  devolved  upon  me,  and  I  was  determined 
to  do  something  quite  super-excellent.  By  some 
means  or  other,  however,  I  quite  forgot  the  soup,  and 
thought  only  of  the  roast  and  the  boiled.  I  considered 
with  myself  what  my  uncle  liked  the  best  ;  I 
knew  that  veal  was  in  season,  and  that  it  was  a 
favourite  di|h  with  him — so  I  bought  a  handsome 
leg  of  veal,  crammed  it,  someway  or  other,  full  of 
stuffing,  and  roasted  it  whole — think  only  of  a  whole 
leg  of  veal !  I  boiled  the  most  beautiful  tongue  I 
could  find,  and  the  finest  new  potatoes  and  cauli- 
flowers ;  all  of  which  I  cooked  by  the  most  approved 
receipts  in  the  cookery-book.  A  bread-pudding,  too, 
I  made — not  forgetting  wine  sauce — and  an  apple- 
tart.  It  was  not  at  all  a  bad  idea  of  a  dinner ;  and  I 
never  felt  better  pleased  in  my  life  than  when, 
punctually  as  my  uncle  and  his  friends  entered  the 
house,  I  saw  my  leg  of  vealj  richly  browned,  and 
done  to  a  turn.  It  was,  as  I  thought,  a  magnificent 
loint,  which  the  very  largest  dish  in  the  best  dinner- 
service  was  hardly  big  enough  to  hold  :  the  tongue 
smelt  savoury,  the  potatoes  were  mealy,  and  the 
cauliflower  unbroken  and  delicate.  I  anticipated  foi 
myself  unmingled  glory,  and  hastily  changed  my 
dress  to  take  my  place  at  table,  thinking  with  m^'self 
that  if  the  pudding  would  but  turn  well  out  of  the 


A  RETURN  IN  KIND.  73 

mould,  I  should  have  achieved  for  myself  great  honour 
that  day !  This  great  big  dish,  for  which  we  had  not 
a  cover  large  enough,  was  brought  in  and  set  before 
my  uncle ;  the  tongue  was  set  at  the  bottom  of  the 
table,  and  the  vegetables  on  each  side. 

"  'But  the  soup?'  said  my  uncle,  glancing  at  me. 
I  felt  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had  struck  me ;  I  don't 
know  whether  I  turned  pale  or  red,  but  all  at  once  I 
remembered  that  I  had  forgotten  the  soup.  '  So 
then,'  said  my  uncle,  intei-preting  my  silence  aright, 
*  there  is  no  soup!' 

"  The  ill-fitting  cover  was  taken  from  the  dish,  and 
I  -saw  at  once  a  smile  on  every  countenance.  I  saw 
that  I  had  again  done  wrong,  and  I  was  mortified  and 
ashamed  !  '  1  hope  your  veal  is  done,'  said  my  uncle, 
as  I  thought,  rather  sternly  ;  and  all  at  once  it  struck 
me — of  which  I  had  never  thought  before— that  people 
did  not  cook  legs  of  veal  whole.  I  thought  of  legs 
of  mutton  and  legs  of  lamb,  but  I  could  not  console 
myself.  'What  will  become  of  me,'  thought  1,  'if 
my  potatoes  and  caulillowers  are  wrong  also  !'  My 
apple-pie  I  felt  sure  was  a  failure,  and  my  pudding 
would  stick  to  the  mould.  '  "What  a  responsible  thing 
cooking  a  dinner  is!'  thought  I,  and  was  ready  to 
burst  into  tears. 

"  Whether  the  veal  really  was  thoroughly  done  or 
not  I  cannot  tell,  but  my  uncle  and  his  friends  said  it 
was  excellent ;  they  praised-  the  tongue,  too,  and  the 
vegetables  ;  and  though  the  pudding  did  not  turn  out 
perfectly,  and  I  was  obliged  to  confess  to  myself  that 
the  apples  were  not  quite  done,  stiU  all  ate  heartilj 
and  seemed  so  good-humoured,  that  even  1  might 
have  been  reconciled  to  myself.  But  that  was  not  so 
u 


74 


A  RETURN  IN  KIND. 


easy.  I  knew  that  I  had  failed ;  that  the  dinner; 
after  all  my  efforts,  was  ridiculous  ;  and,  leaving  my 
uncle  and  his  guests  to  enjoy  their  wine,  I  went  into 
my  own  room  and  cried  bitterly. 

"  Not  one  word,  however,  did  my  uncle  say  about 
it.  I  was  terrified  when  he  came  to  breakfast  next 
morning,  but  he  read  his  newspaper  just  as  usual ; 
and  had  I  not  known  him.  too  well  for  that,  I  should 
have  imagined  he  either  did  not  care  about  it,  or  had 
quite  forgotten  it. 

"  '  Ellen,'  said  he,  in  about  a  month's  time,  '  I  shall 
have  six  friends  to  dine  with  me  next  week ;  let  all 
be  properly  arranged.  I  will  write  down  what  I  wish 
for  dinner,  and  mind  that  all  is  done  well.' — '  Might 
I  only  just  for  once  have  a  hired  cook,  or  somebody 
to  direct  me  ?'  said  I,  full  of  apprehension  and  terror. 
'  No,  no,'  said  he,  good-humouredly,  '  you  must  learn 
to  rely  upon  yourself;  you  will  not  again  roast  a 
whole  leg  of  veal.' — '  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  dearest 
uncle,'  exclaimed  I,  '  do  not  mention  it ;  I  am  ready 
to  cry  whenever  I  think  of  it !'  " 

"And  how  did  you  succeed  this  time  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"  I  begged  my  uncle,"  returned  Mrs.  Morland,  "  to 
give  me  immediately  a  list  of  the  dishes  he  wished ; 
and  whatever  was  new  to  me,  or  about  which  I  was 
not  confident,  I  made  trial  of  for  the  dinners  which 
intervened  ;  and  this  time  all  succeeded  well.  My 
uncle  was  greatly  pleased ;  I  was  put  in  good  humour 
with  myself,  and  never  feared,  and  never  ver)^  greatly 
failed,  after  that  time. 

'•A  few  years,  as  you  may  believe,  made  a  very  great 
change  in  me.  I  was  as  practical  as  my  uncle  him- 
self, and  was  well  skilled,  if  not  clever,  in  all  that 


A  RETURN  IN  KIND.  76 

ViBB  useful  and  domestic,  and  as  far  as  character  and 
views  of  life  went,  if  I  had  been  judged  by  these, 
my  own  mother  would  not  have  known  me. 

•'  The  income  which  my  uncle  allowed  my  parents 
enabled  them  to  live  much  more  comfortably,  and  to 
maintain  my  youngest  brother,  as  1  have  said,  at  the 
University.  My  parents  wished  that  I  should  return 
1o  them,  but  my  wishes  were  adverse  to  it ;  I  was 
not  necessary  at  home,  and  I  flattered  myself  that  I 
was  so  to  my  uncle.  My  uncle  was  greatly  pleased 
by  my  decision,  and  his  kindness  to  me  increased 
daily  ;  unhappily,  however,  my  mother  was  hurt  by 
my  refusal,  and  this  was  most  painful  to  me.  Time 
slid  on — I  was  now  seven-and-twenty  ;  and  one  of 
my  uncle's  sons,  who  was  happily  married,  wished  to 
become,  with  his  wife,  an  inmate  of  his  father's  house. 
This  was  most  desirable  to  me,  as  I  had  then  become 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Morland,  and  he  was  impatient 
for  our  marriage.  My  uncle,  who  in  goodness  and 
consideration  is  superior  to  all  other  men,  made  me  a 
present  of  three  hundred  pounds,  one  of  which  he 
insisted  on  my  laying  out  in  preparation  for  my  mar- 
riage, and  counselled  me  to  return  for  a  few  months 
to  my  father's  house,  that  a  perfectly  good  under- 
standing might  exist  amongst  us,  that  my  father 
might  unite  us,  and  that  I  might  begin  my  married 
life  with  his  and  my  mother's  blessing. 

'•  Such,  dearest  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  "  has 
been  my  life;  there  is  no  romance  in  it ;  but  please 
God  only  that  I  rightly  make  use  of  the  lessons  it 
has  given  me,  I  shall  not  be  altogether  useless  in  my 
sphere,  be  it  large  or  be  it  small." 


7« 


CHAPTER  VI. 


EBB  TIDE. 

Whatever  the  party  at  Mr.  Sopworth's  on  Christ- 
mas-day might  think  of  Mary  Wheeler,  and  her 
flirtation  with  Mark  Sopworth,  as  the  Pocklingtons 
all  called  it,  the  impression  which  Mrs.  Morland 
made  on  every  one  was  extremely  favourable.  She 
was  unanimously  saif  to  be  handsome;  her  dress  was 
admired,  and  altogether,  she  was  declared  by  every- 
body "  one  of  the  genteelest  people  they  ever  saw  ;" 
and  to  be  "quite  an  acquisition  to  their  acquaintance." 

Accordingly — spite  of  the  tragical  history  of  the 
white  cat,  and  spite  of  Mrs.  Morland  being  so  intimate 
with  that  "  flirting  thing,"  Mary  Wheeler — Mrs. 
Barker  commenced  an  acquaintance  with  her,  and 
determined  not  to  let  it  die  away  for  lack  of  very 
frequent  calls  on  her  part,  and  by  showing  her  good- 
will in  bringing  all  the  news  and  gossip  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

Months  went  on,  and  Mrs.  Barker  came  in  one 
summer  afternoon,  brimful  of  news  about  old  Mr. 
Crawley.'  "  ^Vas  it  not  a  shocking  thir.g  ? — and  had 
not  she  really  heard  ? — and  this  was  not  the  first 
time  he  had  been  arrested  ; — his  name  would  certainly 
be  in  the  Gazette  before  this  time  next  year;  and  then 
what  was  to  become  of  Miss  Wheeler?  for  it  was  cer- 
tain sure  that  Mr.  Crawley's  lease  had  only  a  few 
years  to  run,  and  his  creditors  would  take  that  aa 


EBB  TIDE.  77 

property ;  it  would  be  sold,  and  then,  maybe,  Mr 
Morland  would  buy  it;  or  perhaps  Mr.  Mark  Sop- 
worth — the  Sopworths  were  very  rich  people.  Mr. 
Mark  had  already  had  a  thousand  pounds  from  his 
father  to  begin  business  ;  it  was  all  nonsense  about  his 
ever  marrying  Miss  "Wlieeler ;  his  family,  she  was  sure, 
would  be  very  angry  if  he  did  ;  she  did  not  doubt 
but  that  she  would  jump  at  him ;  she  was  always 
flirting  witli  him  !  JJid  not  Mrs.  Morland,  now, 
honestly  think  her  a  flirt  V  "  No  I"  "  Well,  now, 
that  was  odd  i  Mrs.  Morland  was  the  only  person 
who  did  not  think  Mary  Wheeler  a  flirt ;  and  then 
so  afiected  !  She  comes  into  a  room  with  her  head  on 
one  side,  and  if  anybody  looks  at  her,  she  bJushes — 
all  coquetry  and  affectation  !  Mrs.  Barker  hated 
coquetry  and  aff"ectation,  but  she  knew  what  she  knew. 
Mr.  Mark  Sop  worth  would  never  marry  her;  he 
knew  on  which  side  his  bread  was  buttered  too  well 
for  that !  and  if  all  was  true  about  old  Crawley,  Mary 
Wheeler  must  go  out  into  some  situation,  for  she 
had  no  rich  relations  to  take  her." 

So  talked  Mrs.  Barker  to  Mrs.  Morland.  In  a  day 
or  two  she  was  sitting  with  Miss  Lizzy  Sopworth, 
and  talking  about  Mr.  Morland.  "  Well,  she  thanked 
God  that  her  husband  was  a  man  of  business,  and  not 
like  Mr.  Morland  !  But,  really,  it  was  a  shooking 
thing,  such  a  fortune  as  Mr.  Nixon  had  made ;  and 
now  people  said  that  Morland,  though  he  began  with 
three  or  four  thousand  pounds,  was  insolvent !  But 
he  really  was  never  likely  to  make  any  business  suc- 
ceed ;  he  paid  no  attention  to  it — he  neglected  his 
business  shockingly.  Moorson,  the  druggist,  was 
making  all  the  same  perfumes  now.  Morland  was 
h2 


78  EBB  TIDE. 

a  wild,  dissipated  sort  of  man  they  both  agreed, 
and  neglected  his  wife  shamefully ;  he  never  went 
with  her  to  church  now,  and  he  spent  nearly  all  hia 
evenings  at  the  Blue  Boar,  drinking  there  with  com- 
mercial gentlemen  ;  they  did  not  believe  that  Mrs. 
Morland  was  happy — how,  indeed,  could  she  be 
so  ?  Mrs.  Barker  had  heard  hints  dropped — but  she 
hated  repeating  all  that  she  heard — however,  she  was 
certain  that  if  she  had  such  a  husband,  she  would 
read  him  a  pretty  lesson  !  But  they  should  all  see 
soon  what  would  be  the  end  of  all  this ;  Mr.  Morland 
would  get  into  the  Gazette  as  well  as  old  Crawley,  and 
then  he  must  take  to  his  travelling  again  ;  and  if  that 
did  not  bring  down  his  wife's  pride,  they  did  not  know 
what  would." 

The  summer  wore  on,  and  old  Crawley  and  his 
niece,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morland,  furnished  much 
material  for  gossip.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  imagined, 
that,  if  there  were  really  cause,  or  only  ground  for 
some  of  the  many  and  painful  things  that  were 
said,  the  intimacy  between  Mary  Wheeler  and  her 
friend  must  have  become  greater  than  ever,  out  of 
natural  interchange  of  sorrows  and  mutual  sympathy: 
but  that  was  not  exactly  the  case ;  Mary  Wheeler 
and  Mrs.  Morland  had,  of  late, 'met  less  frequently 
than  hitherto,  and  neither  one  nor  the  other  spoke 
much  of  the  sorrow  that  haunted  ihem.  Mrs.  Mor- 
land, indeed,  said  nothmg,  whilst  she  respected  her 
young  friend's  delicacy  of  feeling  too  much  to  pry 
into  whatever  she  might  choose  to  conceal.  As  to  Mrs. 
Morland,  we  will  look  a  little  nearer  into  her  growing 
and  unlooked  for  troubles. 

Mrs.  Morland  had  always  regarded  herwelf  as  most 


EBB  TIDE.  79 

happily  married,  and  had  the  most  intense  admiration 
and  affection  for  her  husband.  He  was,  by  many 
people,  considered  as  very  handsome.  He  had  been 
a  commercial  traveller  all  his  life,  and,  with  his 
guinea  a  day,  and  his  handsome  horse  and  gig,  had 
lived  a  gay  and  easy  life ;  secure  of  his  income,  con- 
fident of  his  own  cleverness  in  all  that  was  required 
from  him,  and  proud  of  his  character  among  his  com- 
mercial brethren,  as  one  of  the  most  respected  and 
respectable  travellers  on  the  road.  And  a  thorough 
good  fellow  into  the  bariruin.  What  smiling  lips  and 
brightening  eyes  of  buxom  landladies  and  pretty 
chambermaids  welcomed  George  Morland,  or  "  the 
handsome  traveller"  as  he  was  called,  to  all  the  best 
inns  in  England  !  What  travellers'  rooms  he  set  in 
a  roar  with  his  gay,  witty  stories  !  and  what  reputa- 
tion had  he  not  gained  for  his  good  singing  !  There 
was  not  a  rich  tradesman  with  whom  he  did  business, 
that,  if  his  wife  had  a  party,  would  not  invite  him  as 
one  of  its  most  honoured  guests.  Yes,  indeed  !  it  was 
a  merry  life,  and  a  life  greatly  to  his  taste,  which  he 
had  led. 

Much  as  he  knew  of  trade,  he  had  never  felt  any 
inclination  for  it  on  his  own  account ;  he  pitied  people, 
indeed — let  them  make  what  incomes  they  would — 
who  were  tied  down,  all  their  lives,  to  a  counter. 
"  Free  and  easy"  was  his  maxim  ;  and  just  in  tho 
fiame  degree  in  which  he  compassionated  the  home- 
bound  shopkeeper,  did  he  regard  the  married  man. 
He  said,  and  so  said  all  who  knew  him,  that  he  would 
remain  a  bachelor,  and  keep  true  to  his  sample-bag 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter ;  but  unexpected  events 
happen,  every  now  and  then,  to  vary  the  dull  routine 


80  EBB  TIDE. 

of  things,  and  so  it  was  here.  Mr.  Morland  found 
himself,  without  the  remotest  expectation  of  such  a 
thing,  heir  to  a  thousand  pounds ;  and  then,  all  at 
once — quite  as  unexpectedly — the  desire  to  be  in  trade 
on  his  own  account  took  possession  of  him,  and  that 
more  especially,  as  Mr.  Nixon,  for  whom  he  had  done 
business,  died  just  then,  and  his  business  was  offered 
for  sale.  Amid  a  host  of  applicants  for  the  business 
he  was  successful ;  he  purchased  it  and  the  stock  in 
trade,  together  with  all  the  late  Mr.  Nixon's  recipes, 
and  thus  became  patentee  of  one  single  perfume,  it 
was  said,  by  which  its  original  inventor  had  cleared 
some  hundreds  a  year.  Morland  thought  he  had  a 
fine  prospect  before  him  ;  borrowed  an  additional 
thousand  pounds,  and  established  himself,  as  he 
thought,  for  life.  No  sooner,  however,  was  he  in  a 
house  of  his  own,  than  he  began  to  think  about  a 
wife;  and  just  as  unexpectedly  as  he  had  found 
himself  possessor  of  a  thousand  pounds,  he  discovered 
that  the  niece  of  a  certain  distiller  in  Bristol  was  in 
possession  of  his  heart.  They  had  known  one  another 
for  years.  It  was  our  own  dear  Mrs  Morland :  he  went 
over  to  Bristol,  said  all  kind  of  noble-seeming  things, 
as,  how  he  never  had  thought  himself  worthy,  a  poor 
traveller  as  he  was,  to  aspire  to  her  hand  ;  but  now — 
here,  he  was  with  his  first  good  luck — might  he  but 
be  thought  worthy  of  her!  We  know  how  all 
this  affair  went  on :  he  married  her,  and  brought  her 
home,  as  we  have  seen. 

Mrs.  Morland,  with  all  her  sound  judgment,  was 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  see  faults  in  any  one 
whom  she  loved.  She  almost  adored  her  husband, 
and  thought  him  about  as  near  perfection  as  any 


EBB  TIDE.  81 

human  being  could  be  ;  she  found  excuses  for  what 
any  one  but  herself  would  have  called  faults,  and 
palliated  and  justified,  not  to  say  cheerfully  shut  her 
eyes,  wherever  her  honest  reason  might  have  blamed. 
A  loving  true-hearted  woman  was  this,  our  dear  i\Ir3. 
Morland,  and  even  while  her  neighbours,  Mrs.  Bar- 
ker and  Lizzy  Sopworth,  made  themselves  quite  sure, 
that  a  person  who  loved  handsomely  to  dress  and 
handsomely  to  live,  as  she  did,  must  long  ago  have 
discovered  that  her  husband  would  never  make  a 
fortune  like  Mr.  Nixon; — for  nothing  at  all  did  he 
know  of  distilling,  and  old  Matthew  had  hinted  how 
badly  things  were  managed,  and  that  hundreds  of 
pounds'  worth  of  spirit,  and  such  things,  were  wasted, 
because  Mr.  Morland  no  more  understood  his  busi- 
ness than  a  child ; — wliilst  all  this,  and  a  deal  more, 
was  talked  of  by  her  ill-natured  neighbours,  Mrs. 
Morland  herself  was  trying  more  and  more  to  make 
home  comfortable  and  attractive  to  her  "dear  George," 
as  she  always  called  him. 

When  people  are  unprosperous  in  a  worldly  point 
of  view,  or  even  when  they  are  dissatisfied  with  them- 
selves, it  mostly  happens  thattlie  temper  is  the  moral 
barometer  which  indicates  these  things.  "  A  pros- 
perous man  can  afford  to  be  good-tempered,"  said 
Morland,  hundreds  of  times  to  himself,  and  not  to 
himself  only,  but  to  his  wife  also.  Thus  it  was  that 
the  very  first  acknowledgements  which  she  made  to 
her  husband's  disadvantage,  were  on  the  score  of  his 
temper.  ''His  temper,"  she  argued,  "  was  not  very 
good — was  not  always  alike;  but  she  could  not  expect 
all  men  to  be  like  her  uncle ;  he  was  a  man  in  ten 
thousand ! "  And  then,  recalling  the  domestic  unhap- 


«S  EBB    TIDE. 

piness  of  her  own  home,  which,  candid  as  she  was, 
she  attributed  more  to  tlie  faults  of  lier  mother  than 
her  father,  she  resolved  to  use  redoubled  efforts  that 
nothing  on  her  part  should  be  wanting  to  secui-e 
comfort  and  affection  to  their  fireside.  The  idea 
that  her  husband  was  inadequate  to  his  business,  and 
that  he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  lose  not  only  what  was 
his  own,  but  what  he  had  borrowed  likewise,  never 
entered  her  mind.  She  feared  only  that  he  missed 
some  accustomed  pleasures  and  indulgences  ;therefore- 
she  only  the  more  consulted  his  tastes,  gratified  his 
whims  and  fancies,  and  met  him  always  with  affec- 
tionate smiles  and  cheeif  ul  words,  nor  ever  breathed 
a  syllable  of  the  wish  which  lay  nearest  to  her  heart 
— that  he  would  spend  more  of  his  evenings  with  her 
than  with  his  old  friends  at  the  Blue  Boar. 

Mr.  Morland  was  a  man  who  had  a  perfect  passion 
for  clothes ;  his  wardrobe  was  most  extraordinary,  at 
least  it  seemed  so  to  his  wife,  who  had  been  accustomed 
to  her  father's  painful  but  necessary  economy,  and  to 
her  uncle's  moderation.  What  a  number  and  variety 
of  great-coats,  cloaks,  and  macintoshes,  did  she  not 
find  him  possessed  of  !  To  say  nothing  of  other 
clothes,  there  was  a  whole  closet-full  of  trousers ;  and 
waistcoats  had  he  by  dozens,  satin,  and  velvet,  and 
cloth  —  of  every  variety  of  manufacture.  It  was  neces- 
sary, he  said,  fur  him  to  dress  well ;  travelling  spoiled 
many  clothes,  and  he  often  got  tired  of  a  thing  as  soon 
as  it  was  made ;  or  it  went  out  of  fiishion,  or  some- 
thing or  other.  Mrs.  Morland  thought  that,  now  her 
husband  did  not  travel,  and  lived  quite  at  home,  it 
would  be  much  better  to  wear  some  of  the  old  things 
out ;  but  he  had  different  views ;  he  sold  half  hie 


EBB  TIDE.  88 

wardrobe  to  a  Jew,  and  then  bought  a  fresh  supply. 
Not  a  month  passed  but  something  or  other  came 
home  from  the  tailor's,  and  Mrs,  Morland,  who  found 
he  would  have  his  way,  only  smiled. 

Midsummer,  however,  came,  and  Avith  it  Mid- 
summer bills.  "  My  dear  George,"  exclaimed  she, 
opening  a  long  bill  from  Hawkins,  the  draper,  "  do 
we  really  owe  him  five-and-forty  pounds  !  I  have  not 
bought  one  single  thing  since  the  table-linen,  and  we 
paid  for  that  at  Christmas — nay  !  and  here  it  actually 
is  again  1  fifteen  pounds,  as  you  may  remember ;  and 
all  the  rest  is  for — "  She  did  not  say  for  Avhat, 
because  it  was  for  his  clothes,  and  she  never  even 
hmted  that  he  did  wrong. 

"  And  what  the  devil  did  you  lay  out  fifteen  pounds 
for  table-linen  for  ?"  returned  he,  roused  out  of  the 
silence  into  which  he  had  sunk. 

"  Fifteen  pounds  1"  returned  his  wife  ;  "  why,  my 
dear  George,  you  surely  do  not  call  that  much  for 
family  table-linen  ;  and  there  was  none,  you  know, 
dearest,  when  I  came.  We  ought,  really,  every  year 
to  make  a  little  purchase  till  we  had  a  good  stock  ; 
but  I  am  so  surprised  that  this  was  not  paid  at  Christ- 
mas !" 

Modand  started  up,  and,  without  another  word, 
went  out,  banging  the  parlour  door  after  him,  and  the 
next  moment  she  heard  him  leave  the  house.  The 
thought  of  the  unpaid  Christmas  bill  lay  most  un- 
pleasantly on  her  mind.  It  was  a  dull,  sultry  evening ; 
her  parlour-windows  opened  into  the  Barkers'  yard  ; 
there  was  no  fresh  air  to  be  had,  and  she  was  begin- 
ning to  think  of  taking  a  little  solitary  walk,  when  a 
low  tap  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  Mary  A\' heeler 


84  EBB  TIDE. 

entered.  Poor  Mary  !  her  eyes,  too,  were  red  ;  she 
had  been  weeping — she,  too,  was  unhappy  !  All  at 
once  it  seemed  as  if  a  veil  were  withdrawn  from  Mrs. 
Morland's  mental  vision,  and  human  life  lay  before 
her,  not  steeped  in  the  roseate  light  of  affection,  as  it 
mostly  seemed  to  her  cheerful  spirit,  but  dark  and 
troubled,  and  full  of  difficulties  and  uncertainties 
What  if  she  and  her  husband  came  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  each  other — came  to  live  in  strife  together — to 
have  secrets  and  misunderstandings  !  And  it  might 
be  so  !  There  was  a  deal  of  unhappiness  in  this 
world  ;  much  disunion  and  bitterness  in  families — and 
if  it  came  to  be  their  case!  And, with  this  thought 
she  suddenly  burst  into  tears ;  it  was  what  Mary 
Wheeler  had  never  seen  her  do  before.  She^  then,  had 
troubles  of  her  own  !  Perhaps,  indeed,  thought  Mary, 
all  those  unpleasant  things  which  people  say  are 
true  ;  perhaps  Mr.  Morland  is  nearly  ruined  ;  perhaps 
he  is  unkind  to  his  wife  ! — A  flood  of  sympathy 
overflowed  the  kind-hearted  girl,  and  without  saying 
one  word,  she  laid  her  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
wept  too.  She  had  come  to  open  all  her  troubles  to 
her  friend ;  to  ask  her  serious  and  most  friendly 
counsel,  byt  this  was  not  the  time ;  nor,  of  course,  did 
she  solicit  the  confidence  of  Mrs.  Morland.  Very 
little  indeed  was  said  by  either  of  them.  Mary  took 
out  her  work  as  usual,  and  Mrs.  Morland  got  hers. 
Yet,  though  their  conversation  was  all  of  common- 
places, never  did  they  part  before  with  such  friendly 
feelings  towards  each  other. 

"  I  've  been  devilishly  cheated  in  this  cursed  con- 
cern," said  Morland,  one  day,  throwing  himself  into  a 
chair,  "  and  I'll  commence  an  action  against  Nixon'g 
executors  for  imposition." 


EEB  TIDE.  85 

*'  Has  Matthew  failed  again,  then?"  asked  his  wife, 
for  she  had  long  been  accustomed  to  hear  of  his 
hlunders. 

In  the  fulness  of  his  indignation  against  Nixon's 
executors,  he  told  her  that  Matthew  knew  nothing ; 
that  Nixon,  he  found,  had  never  let  him  into  his 
secrets,  that  he  had  done  everything  himself.  The 
processes,  he  said,  he  believed  to  be  simple  enough  ; 
but  tliat,  as  he  could  not  make  them  succeed,  he  was 
convinced  that  something  or  other  had  been  withheld 
from  him,  and  he  was  determined  to  commence  a 
prosecution. 

Mrs.  Morland  thought  that  such  a  step  would  be 
the  most  imprudent  in  the  world,  as  it  would  only  be 
publishing  that  he  could  not  produce  articles  equal  to 
those  of  the  late  Mr.  Nixon. 

"  Do  not  do  so,  for  Heaven's  sake  ! "  said  she, 
"  Try  again :  try  again  and  again,  and  that  with  only- 
small  proportions,  so  that,  in  case  of  failure,  there  may 
not  be  much  loss  ;  ])ut,  above  all  things,  keep  from  the 
public  the  knowledge  of  any  want  of  success  what- 
ever. Try  yet  again,  dearest,"  said  she,  kissing  him 
affectionately,  "and  all  will  go  right!" 

Morland  tried  again,  and  again ;  but  things  did  not 
go  right,  "\reeks  went  on;  his  temper  got  more 
irritable  than  ever ;  and  the  draper's  bill  remained 
unpaid. 

Mary  Wheeler,  one  day,  brought  in  the  purse 
which  she  had  made  for  her  brother;  it  was  quite 
finished,  rings  and  tassels  and  all,  and  was  handsome 
enough  to  contain  the  gold  of  an  earl. 

"  How  pleased  your  brother  will  be  with  it !"  said 
Mi-s,  Morland  ;  "  and  when  does  he  come  V 
I 


80 


EBB  TIDE. 


Without  answering,  Mary  burst  into  tears,  and 
Mrs.  Arorland  instantly  imagined  that  her  uncle 
would  not  allow  him  to  come  ;  she  felt  almost  as 
much  excited  as  Mary  herself:  "Oh,  do  tell  me, 
Mary,"  she  said ;  "  is  he  not  coming  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear !  I  do  not  know,"  said  Mary,  at  length, 
wiping  her  eyes;  "I  never  felt  in  such  a  state  of 
excitement  and  anxiety  in  my  life  before ;  for  I 
know  that,  in  the  temper  my  uncle  now  is  and  has 
been  for  many  weeks,  he  would  not  let  him  come  if 
he  were  now  in  England.  And  then,  only  think  !  he 
that  has  lived  all  this  time  in  the  hope  of  seeing  me, 
that  has  been  away  from  his  native  land  so  long,  to 
come  back  and  have  no  home,  and  everybody  else 
have  homes  to  go  to  and  friends  to  welcome  them ! 
And  when  there  is  nobody  in  this  world  that  can  be  so 
dear  to  another  as  Ned  is  to  me,  not  to  be  allowed  to 
come  to  see  me  !  I  really  think  it  will  make  me  lose 
my  senses." 

"  He  must — he  will  let  him  come  !"  said  the  hope- 
ful Mrs.  Morland. 

"  Oh,"  said  poor  Mary,  "  what  have  I  not  done  to 
get  him  into  good  humour,  and  how  frightened  have 
1  been  to  see  how  the  time  was  going  on  !  To-morrow 
is  the  1st  of  September,  and  so  as  I  have  wished  for 
the  time  to  come  !  Now,  if  it  were  in  my  power,  I 
would  make  it  stand  still ;  for,  oh,  if  this  time  goes 
by  and  I  do  not  see  him,  it  may  be  years  before  I  see 
him  again — if  I  ever  do — for  I  may  die,  or  he  may ; 
or — one  docs  not  know  what  may  happen  !" 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  "  you  are 
terrifying  yourself  about  imaginary  things  ;  when  he 
really  comes,  your  uncle  will  be  as  glad  to  see  him  as 
ou  will." 


EBB  TIDE.  87 

Mary  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  then  continued  :  "  I 
have  so  longed  to  talk  to  you,  dear  Mrs.  Morland, 
but  I  dislike  so  much  to  be  always  complaining  ;  and 
then,  for  a  long  time,  I  thought  I  ought  not  to  men- 
tion many  things  which  made  me  uneasy ;  but  you 
must  have  heard — everybody  has — all  the  neighbours' 
servants  know  it — about  my  uncle's  arrest,  and  all  the 
terrible  rumours  there  are  about  him.  They  say  he 
will  be  a  bankrupt ;  I  do  not  know,  I  am  sure,  for 
you  know  one  cannot  speak  of  these  things ;  but  I 
have  had  many  thoughts  and  questionings  with  myself 
of  what  I  ought  to  do.  Heaven  knows,  that  if  J  could 
do  anythmg  for  my  uncle,  I  would ;  he  has  found 
me  a  home  for  many  years,  and  then  he  let  Ned  be 
gratified  in  the  choice  of  a  profession.  I  feel  that  I 
owe  him  something ;  but,  oh,  Mrs.  Morland,  indeed, 
indeed,"  sobbed  she,  "  my  uncle's  house  is  hardly  a 
fit  home  for  a  young  girl !  Many,  many  things,  more 
than  the  world  really  knows,  make  me  unhappy. 
I  want — indeed  I  do — a  friend  to  counsel  with  and 
to  advise  me.  If  Ned  were  to  come,  I  should  tell 
him  all,  and  ask  him  what  I  should  do.  If  my  poor 
unfortunate  uncle  is  bankrupt,  or  goes  to  jail,  I  then 
must  do  something.  -I  will  take  a  place  in  a  school ; 
I  will  serve  in  a  shop  ;  I  will  even  be  a  common 
servant,  for  indeed  I  am  not  proud :  and  let  me  be 
where  I  may,  I  cannot  have  much  more  to  bear  than 
I  have  already  borne  !"  Mary  wept,  and  Mrs.  INIor- 
laud,  full  cf  sympathy  and  kindness,  forgetting  all 
her  own  anxieties,  began  to  think  that  she  would 
persuade  hor  husband  to  invite  Mary's  brother  to 
their  house,  in  case  Mr.  Crawley  refused  to  let  him 
go  there. 


88  EBB  TIDE. 

"Don't  be  disheartened,  dear  Mary,"  said  she; 
"you'll  see  your  brother — I'm  sure  you  will.  And 
then,  as  to  all  you  say  about  its  being  an  unfit  home 
for  you  with  your  uncle,  that  I  am  sure  of.  We  will 
all  three  of  us — Ned  and  you  and  I — consider  what 
is  best  to  be  done!"  Mary  made  no  answer;  and 
Mrs.  Morland  began  to  think  of  her  young  friend's 
future,  in  which  of  course,  as  it  always  did,  mingled 
the  idea  of  Mr.  Mark  Sopworth.  She  began,  there- 
fore, quite  naturally  to  speak  of  the  Sopworths. 

"  Ah  !  there's  another  trouble,"  said  Mary.  "  Lizzy 
Sopworth  is  not  at  all  friendly  with  me  now.  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  but  she  has  never  been  quite  friendly 
with  me  since  last  Christmas,  and  if  ever  her  brother 
shows  me  the  least  attention,  it  is  sure  to  displease 
her." '  The  last  attention,  as  she  frankly  confessed, 
but  not  without  blushes,  which  he  had  shown  her, 
wiis  in  walking  home  with  her  from  Sommerton, 
where  they  had  accidentally  met.  She  did  not  think, 
either,  that  his  family  were  as  friendly  to  her  as  they 
used  to  be ;  she  fancied  that  they  were  influenced  by 
all  those  shocking  things  respecting  her  uncle.  People 
used  to  fancy  him  rich,  and  that  she  would  be  his 
heir ;  but,  however  that  might  be,  Mr.  Mark  had 
been  more  than  commonly  friendly  to  her  that  even- 
ing ;  they  had  talked  a  deal  about  liej  brother  :  she 
could  not  help  crying,  she  said  ;  and  then  he  had 
been  so  kind — it  was  impossible  fur  her  to  say  how 
kind  he  had  been  1 

Mrs.  Morland,  as  was  very  natural,  spoke  of  the 
time  when  she  would  be  Mrs.  Mark  Sopworth,  and 
of  what  a  happiness  it  would  be  for  her  to  have  a 
house  of  her  own,  to  invite  her  brother  to.     Mary 


EBB  TIDE.  89 

Baid  that  she  had  often  tliought  of  these  things  lier- 
self,  and  that  really  the  prospect  of  having  a  home 
of  one's  own  was  enough  to  make  a  woman  marry, 
provided  she  had  any  respect  for  a  man. 

Mrs.  Morland  thought  so  too ;  and  then  added, 
that,  whatever  the  family  of  the  Sop  worths  miglit 
feel  regarding  her,  she  was  quite  convinced  that  Mark 
was  excessively  in  love  with  her ;  and  she  felt  sure, 
that  if  anything  really  unfortunate  happened  to  Mr. 
Crawley,  Mary  would  have  a  home  provided  for  her, 
without  the  necessity  either  of  serving  in  a  shop  or 
going  into  a  school. 

Blessed  are  those  friends  and  counsellors  who  think 
as  we  do  !  Mary  was  happier  that  night,  as  she  laid 
her  head  on  her  pillow,  than  she  had  heen  for  months. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


A    TURN    IX    THE    TIDE. 

"  I'll  never  stir  another  stroke  in  this  cursed  busi- 
ness r  said  Morland,  bursting  into  the  parlour  one  of 
the  next  days — "never,  as  long  as  I  live;  and  the 
devil  may  do  his  worst  with  it !"       ♦ 

Mi-s.  Morland,  as  she  had  done  many  a  time 
before,  tried  to  pacify  and  soothe ;  and  hoped  and 
felt  sure  that  all  would  be  right,  and  that  her  hus- 
band would  succeed  if  he  would  only  persevere.  It 
was  such  a  thing,  she  said,  to  be  disheartened,  and  to 
give  anything  up  in  despair  !  She  should  never  doubi 
succeeding  herself,  if  she  were  to  try ;  and  she  was  (juite 
i2 


90  A  TURN  IN  THE  TIDE. 

sure,  that  if  he  would  only  think  so,  he  would  suD- 
ceed  too.  Oh,  it  was  absurd  to  think  of  anything  else ! 

"  If  1  could  only  have  been  contented  to  be  as  I 
was  !"  exclaimed  he.  deaf  to  the  voice  of  the  charmer, 
— "  with  a  guinea  a  day,  and  no  responsibility,  instead 
of  paying  a  thousand  pounds  for  what  is  not  worth  a 
thousand  pence,  and  then  to  have  borrowed  mouey 
besides  !     Heavens  !  it  makes  me  mad." 

His  wife  still  talked  cheerfully,  still  tried  to 
make  him  take  a  more  hopeful  view  of  things — and, 
above  all,  to  have  confidence  in  himself. 

"  I  am  next  door  to  a  beggar ! "  said  he,  looking 
fiercely  at  her ;  for  all  that  she  said,  in  the  honest 
belief  of  her  soul,  of  his  abilities  for  business  and 
ultimate  success,  seemed  to  him  bitter  irony.  "  In 
half  a  year — ay,  in  three  months — I  shall  be  a  bank- 
rupt. I  hate  the  whole  concern,  and  that's  the  long 
and  short  of  it ;  and  I  wish  the  devil  had  it !  "  And 
then,  in  a  sort  of  desperation,  which  was  not  without 
a  tinge  of  malice,  he  brought  out  his  books  to  show 
her  how  his  affairs  really  stood,  and  to  prove  to  her, 
he  said,  what  a  fool  she  was  to  talk  of  ultimate 
success,  and  such  stuff.  jNIelancholy  indeed  was  it  to 
see  large,  heavily-bound  ledgers,  which  seemed  calcu- 
lated for  a  business  whose  proud  returns  should  be  ten 
thousand  a  year,'  containing,  at  their  very  outset,. a 
balance  of  loss — loss — loss !  She  thought  to  herself, 
that  her  husl)and  did  well  indeed  to  keep  them  undei 
lock  and  key ;  for  what  would  Barker  or  Sopwurth 
say,  could  they  surmise  even  of  such  things  I 

It  was  an  astounding  discovery — one  for  which  sho 
was  not  prepared  ;  and  she  sate  with  her  head  resting 
on  her  hand  in  deep  thought,  from  which  she  wa» 


A  TURN  IN  THE  TIDE.  91 

roused  by  her  husband's  words.  He  would  sell,  he 
said,  his  business  for  what  he  could  get  for  it,  and 
take  again  to  his  commercial  travelling— from  the 
salary  for  which  he  must  contrive  to  allow  her  a 
hundred  a  year,  or  something  like  that.  It  was  a 
good  thing,  he  said,  that  they  had  no  family ;  she 
and  a  servant  could  live  very  well  on  that,  for  nobody 
would  expect  much  show  from  a  bankrupt's  wife. 

This  was  the  cruellest  blow  that  could  have  fallen 
on  poor  Mrs.  Morland  ;  she  could  not  at  first  believe 
that  her  husband  really  meant  wliat  he  said.  To  live 
separated  from  him — him  whom  she  loved  so  ardently, 
was  to  her  inconceivable ;  she  would  rather  live  on 
bread-and-water  with  him,  than  like  a  queen  without 
him;  his  affection  for  her  must  indeed  be  very  different 
to  hers,  if  he  could  mean  what  he  said.  But  then, 
that  that  husband  should  be  a  bankrupt !  Oh,  heavens ! 
with  all  her  upright  notions  of  trade  and  tradesmen, 
as  derived  from  the  knowledge  of  her  uncle,  that  waa 
worse  even  than  all  the  rest ;  for,  to  be  a  bankrupt 
was  to  her  mind  the  height  and  depth  of  disgrace ! 
To  have  begun  with  two  thousand  pounds,  and  in 
two  years  not  to  be  able  to  pay  more  than  three 
shillings  in  the  pound,  as  her  husband's  books  seemed 
to  prove,  what  a  disgraceful  thing  it  was !  She  thought 
of  Hawkins's  unpaid  bill ;  she  thought  of  manyanother 
un})aid  bill ;  and  the  prospect  seemed  most  appalling  ! 

But  Mrs.  Morland — bless  her  noble  spirit !  was  not 
a  woman  to  sink  down  tamely  under  misfortune," 
especially  when  that  misfortune  was  of  a  kind  to  leave 
a  stain  on  the  fair  fame  of  her  husband.  Her  first 
thought  and  hope  was  that  sbe  would  encourage  him 
to  help  himself  out  of  his  difficulties ;  her  second. 


92  A  TURN  IN  THE  TIDE. 

and  more  mature  one,  was,  that  she  herself  would 
endeavour  to  help  him. 

"  George,  dearest,"  said  she  to  him  one  day,  soon 
after  these  terrible  things  had  come  to  her  knowledge, 
*'two  tliino^s  are  certain, — our  affairs  are  desperate, 
and  they  must  be  mended.  Let  me  undertake  the 
preparation  of  the  perfumes.  I  am  no  fine  lady, 
thank  God  !  I  care  not  what  this  person  or  that  says 
about  anything  I  do,  so  that  we  can  only  keep  a 
good  name  !  Oh,  George,"  continued  she,  "  you  know 
not  what  difficulties  I  have  conquered  in  my  life,  and 
if  I  were  to  tell  you,  you  would  perhaps  think 
nothing  of  them;  but  they  have  given  me  confidence 
in  myself ;  and  self-reliance,  with  judgment,  will 
overcome  great  difficulties  !  Yes,  you  may  smile," 
said  she,  "  but  a  drowning  man  will  catch  at  a  straw ; 
here,  then,  see  the  straw  which  1  hold  out  to  you, 
and  which,  please  God  to  prosper  me,  shall  not  prove 
a  straw,  but  a  good  sound  bridge  to  carry  you  over  !" 

"V\''e  need  not  go  through  all  the  pros  and  cons  in 
the  affiiir.  Like  the  widow  in  the  gospel,  in  the  end 
she  cariied  her  point.  Her  husband  consented — but 
with  an  ill-grace,  we  must  confess — that  she  should 
make  the  attempt ;  he  all  the  while  assuring  her  that 
she  was  a  fool,  and  would  only  end  by  making  the 
three  shillings  in  the  pound,  which  the  creditors 
might  now  receive,  three  halfpence ;  but  it  did  not 
matter,  he  said  ;  she  should  be  a  nine  days*  wonder, 
any  how ! 

Poor  Mrs.  Morland !  A  great  responsibility  seemed 
laid  upon  her,  as  the  next  day  she  set  about  her  work 
in  good  earnest.  Her  husband,  however,  prepared  his 
portmanteau,  and  set  out,  as  he  said,  on  an  absence 


A  TURN  IN  THE  TIDE  93 

of  a  week.  She  never  inquired  where  he  was  going, 
nor  did  he  seem  inclined  to  tell  her  ;  but,  just  at  that 
time,  she  could  not  help  finding  his  absence  a  great 
relief. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  delicate  and  renowned  of 
Nixon's  perfumes  on  which  Mrs.  Morland  made  her 
first  attempt.  She  found  the  process  most  clearly 
laid  down  by  Nixon  in  his  private  book,  and  the 
process  seemed  easy  and  simple  ;  it  only  required 
precision  and  strict  attention.  Her  husband  had 
failed  every  time — if  she  could  accomplish  that,  she 
need  despair  of  none.  She  scarcely  breathed  as  the 
work  went  on ;  with  her  watch  in  her  hand,  she  saw 
it  distilling  drop  by  drop  ;  if  it  succeeded,  it  was  like 
60  much  pure  gold  :  if  she  failed,  what  then? — Why 
she  would  try  again,  and  again  ! 

"  Thank  God  !  thank  God  !"  exclaimed  she,  ex- 
amining the  ethereal  liquid,  which  she  had  prepared, 
and  inhaling  its  most  refined  odour ;  ''this  must  be 
right." 

The  postman  brought  in  a  letter — it  was  from  her 
husband  in  London.  He  wrote  to  say,  that  he  was 
in  treaty  to  dispose  of  his  business,  and  had  already  a 
prospect  of  re-cngagement  with  the  old  firm  for  which 
he  had  formerly  travelled.  He  should  not  be  back, 
he  said,  for  a  fortnight,  and  he  intended  that  she 
should  remove  to  London,  which  would  be  a  much 
more  agreeable  home  for  her  than  a  gossiping  place 
like  W —  would  be,  after  the  disagreeables  which 
were  inevitable.  He  asked,  he  said,  eight  hundred 
pounds  for  his  business,  but  would  be  quite  willing  to 
take  five  for  it.  In  a  postscript  he  added  that  it  wag 
not  the  least  use  in  the  world  her  endeavouring  to 


94  A    TUnN   IN  THE  TIDE- 

turn  him  ;  his  mind  was  quite  made  up,  and  he  should 
close  the  bargain  as  soon  as  possible. 

All  the  pleasure  of  success  was  damped  by  this 
letter  ;  she  wrote  instantly  to  her  husband  to  inform 
him  of  her  success,  and  to  btseech  of  him  not  to  dis- 
pose of  a  business  which  was  worth  ten  times  the 
money  he  asked  for  it. 

The  letter  was  despatched ;  and  as  she  sat  in  the 
evening,  pondering  almost  gloomily  on  the  unfortu- 
nate concurrence  of  circumstances,  Becky  came  in, 
and  said  that  Miss  Wheeler  wanted  to  see  her.  "  Let 
her  come,  certainly,''  said  she ;  and  Mary  Wheeler 
entered.  Both  of  them  looked  out  of  spirits,  and  for 
some  time  scarcely  anything  was  said. 

"  You  have  heard,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Morland, 
at  length,  "  what  everybody  is  saying  about  us.** 
Mary  confessed  that  she  had ;  people  were  so  sur- 
prised, she  said ;  it  seenied  to  make  lier  uncle's  affairs 
sink  into  insignificance,  and  she  could  never  herself 
express  how  gnevea  sne  w-no. 

"  Please  God  !"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  "  all  may  be 
better  before  long;  but  this  is  a  blow  I  was  very 
little  prepared  for,"  added  she,  imable  to  avoid  weep- 
ing. Mary  so  seldom  saw  her  weep,  and  weeping  too 
on  her  own  account,  that  there  was  something  inex- 
pressibly affecting  to  her  in  it ;  she  clasped  her  arms 
round  her  neck  like  a  loving  child,  and  while  she 
kissed  her  tenderly,  wept  too,  for  sincerest  sympathy. 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  rousing  up  at  length, 
"  I  want  to  know,  Mary,  whether  your  brother  ig 
coming  1" 

Tile  question  turned  poor  Mary's  thoughts  at  onco 
Into  their  old  channel ;  she  grew  quite  pale,  and, 


A  TURN  IN  THE  TIDE.  05 

without  replyinj^,  fixed  her  eyes  on  Mrs.  Morland, 
with  a  look  ahnost  of  despair,  that  went  to  her 
very  soul.  "  Poor  dear  child  !"  said  she  ;  and  Mary, 
opening  her  little  black  silk  bag,  took  thence  a  letter, 
which  ^he  put  into  her  hand.  It  was  a  letter  from 
Ned  himself,  dated  "  off  Gravesend"  but  a  few  dayg 
before  ;  a  joyful,  affectionate  letter,  full  of  the  anti- 
cipation of  meeting.  Whilst  Mrs.  Morland  read  it, 
Mary  sate  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  almost 
breathless ;  and,  when  she  had  finished,  clasped  her 
hands,  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  And  do  you  really  mean  to  say  that  your  brother 
is  not  coming  ?"  asked  she. 

"  He  is  not  coming,"  returned  Mary,  in  a  mcum- 
ful  voice ;  "  my  uncle  has  utterly  forbidden  it.  I 
went  down  on  my  knees,"  said  she,  "  to  him  yester- 
day,— I  besought  him  with  prayers  and  tears,  but  it 
was  no  use  ;  nothing  but  despair,  which  drove  me 
almost  frantic,  would  have  made  me  venture  so  far; 
and  if  I  had  been  begging  for  my  life,  I  could  not 
have  prayed  more  earnestly,  but  it  was  no  use  ; — he 
says  he  cannot  afford  it  I  Oh,  what  a  miserable 
thing  it  is  to  be  poor!"  exclaimed  sh^-.  "  If  I  could 
only  in  any  way  raise  five  })oundtJ,  that  he  miglit 
come  !  but  all  the  money  that  ever  I  could  sav«-,  I 
laid  out  for  him  in  a  silk  handkerchief,  and  that 
miserable  purse,  which  I  thought  I  should  have  such 
pleasure  in  giving  him  1" 

Mrs.  Morland  thought  of  her  own  former  wishes  to 
invite  Mary's  brother  to  their  house,  in  case  his  uncle 
refused  ;  and  she  sighed  deejdy,   remembering,   ahis 
her  own  inability  to  do  so. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mary^  aftei  a  few  second.*,  during 


96  A  TURN  IN  THE  TIDE. 

which  Mr5?.  Morland  made  no  remark,  "  you  think 
that,  in  the  present  state  of  my  uncle's  affairs,  1  ought 
not  to  have  urged  him  to  spend  even  one  penny  on 
me  or  Ned,  and  that  I  am  unreasonable  ever  to^hink 
of  such  a  thing ; — perhaps  I  am  :  but  this  I  know 
that  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not  live  without  seeing  him. 
and  I  think  it  is  only  natural  that  I  should  feel  so, 
especially  when  1  know  that  he  is  in  England,  and 
that  he  has  no  particular  friends  in  London,  and  that 
he  wants  to  see  mo  so  much.  And,  oh,"  said  she, 
speaking  almost  wildly,  "  there  are  so  many,  so  very 
many  things  on  which  I  want  his  counsel ;  he  alwaya 
seemed  so  much  older  in  judgment  than  I  ;  and  he 
has  travelled  so  far,  and  seen  so  much,  that  I  am  sure 
he  could  advise  me  for  the  best !" 

Mrs.  Morland  thought  to  herself  that  a  youth  who 
had  lived  so  much  at  sea,  very  probably  had  had 
really  far  less  experience  in  life  than  the  poor  girl 
hereelf,  hut  she  did  not  say  so  ;  and  Mary  added, 
"  There  are  many  things  on  which  I  wanted  to  open 
my  heart  to  him,  and  to  know  his  opinion." 

Mrs.  Morland  readily  imagined  what  these  were. 
The  state  of  her  affections,  probably,  was  as  little 
happy  as  her  prospects  in  life,  for  she  herself  had 
often  thought,  though  she  had  never  said  so  to  Mary, 
that  if  Mark  Sopworth  really  had  no  matrimonial 
intentions  towards  her,  he  was  trifling  very  cruelly, 
not  to  say  shamefully,  with  her  feelings ;  and  if  he 
had,  now  was  the  time  of  all  others  to  come  forward 
— now  when  she  so  deeply  needed  true  friends  and  a 
home. 

"I  don't  wonder,  dear  Mary,"  said  she,  "at  your 
wanting   to   see  your  brother;  it  is  no  more  than 


A  TURN  IN  THE  TIDE.  97 

natural,  and  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  could  !"  And  then 
she  told  her  what  had  been  lier  intentions,  and  what 
nothing  but  their  own  misfortunes  Avould  have  pre- 
vented her  from  doing.  Mary  threw  her  arms  again 
round  her  neck,  and  kissed  her  tenderly,  for  this 
proof  of  intended  kindness  touched  her  beyond  words. 
"  I  know  how  good  and  generous  you  are,"  said  she ; 
"  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  you,  what  would  have 
become  of  me  ?  And  I  would,  and  should,"  added  she, 
'*  have  asked  your  advice  long  ago,  but  I  knew  thai 
you  had  troubles  and  anxieties  of  your  own  ;  and  & 
hoped  that  Ned  would  come  ! " 

Days  went  on,  and  many  a  wild  scheme  had  pook 
Mary  to  procure  means  to  enable  her  brother  to  com« 
to  W — .  His  letters,  though  intended  to  reconcile 
her  to  their  mutual  disappointment,  almost  broke  her 
heart ;  and  when  at  length  she  received  from  him  a 
packet  of  beautiful  Indian  trifles,  which  he  found  an 
opportunity  of  sending  to  her  free  of  cost,  she  was 
almost  beside  herself.  "  If  I  could  only  borrow  five 
pounds,"  thought  she,  ''  I  would  go  into  service,  anil 
never  rest  till  it  was  paid  back  again  ;"  and  had  it  not 
been  that  Mrs.  Morland  was  unfortunate  herself,  she 
would  have  asked  it  from  her.  She  thought  of  Miss 
Harris  ;  but,  oh,  no  !  Miss  Harris  would  do  nothing 
which  seemed  counter  to  Mr.  Crawley's  wishes.  She 
thought  of  Mark  Sopworth.  Heaven  help  her,  poor 
girl !  she  had  thought  of  him  all  the  time  ;  but  though 
ehe  told  Lizzy  Sopworth  of  her  distress,  Lizzy's 
sympathy  was  cold,  for  she  and  Barbara  Pocklington 
were  going  to  the  Assize  ball,  and  had  neither  time 
nor  thought  to  spend  on  anybody's  troubles.  Mary 
caw  Mark  himself — met  him  in  the  street,  and  actu- 

K 


98  A  TURN  IN.TUE  TIDE. 

ally  stopped  liiin — such  a  thing  as  she  had  never  dono 
before,  to  tell  him  htn*  distress.  He  turned  back  with 
her,  and  walked,  not  homeward,  but  into  the  pleasant 
fields  below  the  town.  He  was  sympathisingly  kind, 
more  than  as  a  friend,  almost  as  a  lover  ;  but  yet — 
oh  yes,  a  woman's  heart  is  sensitive  as  life  itself, — it 
was  not,  after  all,  quite  that  generous,  self-forgetting, 
'  all-sacrificing  kindness,  which  is  the  true  characteris- 
tic of  true  h)ve  !  She  was  more  than  ever  depressed 
as  she  sate  down  in  her  own  chamber,  after  her  return, 
not  knowing  that  Barbara  Pocklington,  who  liad  seen 
them  together,  was  sitting  also  in  her  chamber,  a 
prey  to  the  fiend  jealousy. 

The  day  after  Mrs.  Morland  received  her  hus- 
band's letter,  she  wrote  to  her  uncle,  begging  him  to 
come  to  her  immediately.  He  came  ;  and  the  very 
day  he  came,  Morland  wrote  again  to  his  wife,  but 
in  wretched  spirits  ;  he  thought  nothing  at  all  of  her 
success,  but  was  greatly  disturbed  that  the  bargain 
was  all  off  about  disposing  of  his  business.  There 
was  a  rumour  abroad,  he  said,  to  his  disadvantage; 
and  everywhere  people  were  imitating  Nixon's  per- 
fumes. Nobody  would  purchase  the  concern,  because 
the  patent  vvas  so  invaded.  He  talked  of  prosecution, 
and  tlien  cursed  liis  poverty.  There  never  was  such 
a  miserable  letter  written  before  ! 

By  the  time  Mrs.  Morland's  uncle  came,  she  had 
worked  up  all  the  stock  which  her  hurband  had  left, 
and  had  re-supplied  the  warehouse  with  sundry 
dozens  of  whatever  articles  were  most  in  demand ; 
and  what  was  yet  more  to  the  purpose  was,  that  what- 
ever she  had  prepared  was  finer  almost  than  that 
which  had  been  made  by  the  original  inventor.  "  1  am 


•    A   TURN'  IN  THE  TIDE.  09 

lucky  !  God  be  thanked  ;  I  am  indeed  lucky  !"  said 
dear  Mrs.  Morland,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  at  the  very 
moment  when  her  uncle's  rap  at  the  door  startled  her. 

We  tell  nothing  of  the  meeting  of  uncle  and  niece  ; 
we  merely  say,  that  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  of  her 
success,  and  of  her  ability  to  conduct  the  business  ; 
that  he  gave  her  the  most  cordial  encouragement  and 
approbation,  and  consented  to  become  nominally  the 
purchaser  of  the  business,  for  five  hundred  pounds, 
which  he  would  advance  immediately,  to  enable  her, 
and,  in  fact,  on  condition  of  her  becoming  joint  con- 
ductor and  manager  of  the  concern.  All  was  happily 
and  satisfactorily  arranged ;  and  while  not  only  the 
Barkers  and  the  Sopworths,  but  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood were,  not  whispering  of  the  Morland's  embar- 
rassment, but  almost  shouting  it  aloud,  Mrs.  Morland 
wrote  a  joyful  letter  to  her  husband. 

"  Return,  dearest,"  said  she.  ''  for  things  are  not  so 
bad  but  that  they  will  readily  be  repaired.  Your 
business  has  begun  already  to  flourish.  I  hoped,  in 
marrying  you,  to  bring  a  blessing  into  your  house  ;  of 
money,  Heaven  knows  I  brought  but  little,  but  that 
is  of  less  consequence,  if  I  can  help  you  to  acquire  it. 

"But,  in  order  that  I  may  make  myself  intelligi- 
ble to  you,  I  must  tell  you,  that,  by  the  blessing  of 
Heaven,  I  have  entirely  and  altogether  succeeded  in 
making  and  distilling  those  particular  perfumes  on 
which  you  set  most  value.  My  uncle,  for  whom  I  sent, 
and  on  whose  judgment  Iknow  you  too  set  a  high  value, 
has  been  here.  He  entirely  approves  of  all  that  I  have 
done,  and  testifies  to  my  success.  He  will  advance  us 
the  necessary  money  to  go  on  with,  so  that  there  is  no 
fear  of  your  becominar  bankrupt.     Gracious  Heaven  t 


100  A  TURN  IN   THE  TIDE. 

the  idea  of  your  being  so  disgraced  would  almost  drive 
me  mad  !  I  am  happy,  George — supremely  happy, 
in  feeling  myself  to  be  the  means  of  helping  you,  and 
keeping  your  name  free  from  stain. 

"  Thank  God  !  we  may  now  live  together  ;  for,  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  nothing  in  this  world,  excepting 
disgrace  itself,  is  so  bitter  as  to  be  separated  from  you. 
Come  home  then,  dearest,  as  soon  as  you  can,  and 
give  up  the  horrid  idea  of  travelling,  which,  in  point 
of  respectability,  is  nothing  to  compare  to  a  clever, 
flourisliing  tradesman,  who  is  his  own  master,  and 
whose  profits  are  all  for  himself.  I  am  proud  of 
being  a  tradesman's  Avife,  and,  above  all,  of  being 
yours  !  Come  back,  then,  to  your  own  wife,  and  make 
her  perfectly  happy,  by  saying,  '  Well  done,  good  and 
faithful  servant  !'  Yes,  George,  I  say  come  back,  and 
your  wife  will  be  your  helper — your  helpmate,  as  the 
Creator  from  the  first  intended  all  wives  to  be." 

Mori  and  read  the  letter,  and  came  home,  not  so 
much  because  his  wife  wished  it,  as  because  he  had 
completed  his  own  arrangements,  signed  and  sealed 
his  agreement  with  A\^illet  and  Skeggs,  to  become 
once  more  their  commercial  traveller,  and  was  now 
at  liberty  to  look  after  his  own  brangled  affairs,  and 
to  make  an  end  one  way  or  another  of  that  "  cursed 
business,"  as  he  still  continued  to  call  it.  He  read 
his  wife's  letter,  and  did  her  the  justice  to  say  that 
there  was  not  in  this  world  a  better  wife  than  his, 
and  that  it  was  a  pity  she  had  ever  married  an  unfor- 
tunate dog  like  himself ;  but  as  to  having  any  faith 
in  her  distilling  and  perfume-compounding,  he  had 
none ;  and  as  to  the  five  hundred  which  the  uncle 
had  lent,  why,  if  he  chose  to  purchase  the  business, 


A  TURN  IN  THE  TIDE.  101 

and  let  his  niece  manage  it  for  him,  that  was  another 
thing  :  but  as  to  borrowing  the  money,  with  interest 
to  pay  on  it,  that  he  would  never  consent  to  ;  and  he 
did  not  exactly  like  that  the  state  of  his  affairs,  with- 
out his  own  knowledge,  should  have  been  laid  open  to 
anybody,  and  more  especially  to  a  precise,  clever  man 
of  business  like  his  wife's  uncle,  who  looked  on  insol- 
Tency  as  worse  than  leprosy. 

So  thought  Morland  ;  and,  so  thinking,  came  home. 
The  uncle  was  gone  when  he  arrived,  and  his  wife 
was  busy  again  distilling,  and  working  down  in  the 
little  laboratory  with  as  much  zeal  as  ever  Nixon  had 
"worked  there  before  her.  Her  husband's  laugh,  as 
he  entered  unperceived,  and  stole  softly  behind  her, 
made  her  first  aware  of  his  presence.  She  threw  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  lips,  his  cheeks, 
and  his  forehead; — the  joyful  affection  of  his  wife 
made  him  for  the  moment  unspeakably  happy. 

"  And  now,"  said  she,  putting  the  key  of  the 
laboratory  into  her  pocket,  "  before  you  eat  or  drink, 
you  shall  see  the  grain  of  mustard-seed  which  I  have 
sown  for  our  future  prosperity." 

Morland  saw  what  his  wife  had  done  ;  and,  after 
examination,  proved  to  him  how  well  she  had  done  it 
too  :  yet.  for  all  this — and  we  write  it  with  regret — 
he  gave  her  but  very  measured  commendation.  He 
did  not  say,  as  he  ought  to  have  done,  and  as  in  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  he  felt  all  the  time,  that  she,  in 
having  succeeded  where  he  had  failed,  had  become 
his  good  angel,  and  had  saved  him  from  disgrace  and 
ruin ;  and  beyond  that,  that  she  must  be  regarded  aa 
the  agent  of  their  future  prosperity. 

Nothing  of  this  sort  did  Mr.  Morland  say,   but 


102  A  TURN  IN  THE  TIDE. 

talked  very  coolly.  He  hoped  things  would  turn  out 
well  ;  hoped  she  might  ultimately  sueceed,  but  crid 
not  feel  at  all  sure;  the  things  which  she  had  pre- 
pared might  or  might  not  be  right,  time  would  prove 
— and  time  would  prove,  too,  whether  her  present 
success  was  not  rather  accident  than  anything  else  ! 
He  could  n(jt  say,  for  his  part;  and  so  on. 

Buoyant-hearted  as  Mrs.  Morland  naturally  was, 
she  could  not  help  confessing  that  it  was  a  little  dis- 
couraging to  hear  him  talk  so  ;  her  uncle  had  spoken 
very  differently  ;  she  was  sorry  that  her  husband 
was  not  as  well  pleased  as  she  had  hoped  he  would  be. 
But,  after  all,  added  she,  what  did  it  matter  ?  the 
main  thing  was  accomplished, — the  business  would 
succeed  ;  he  would  give  her  all  the  credit  she  deserved 
as  soon  as  the  money  began  to  come  in  ;  and,  in  the 
meantime,  she  should  have  him  with  her,  to  make 
happy  and  to  love  ! 

Alas  !  the  coolness  with  which  he  had  regarded  all 
her  good  works  gave  not  half  the  pain  which  she 
endured  a  few  days  afterwards,  on  finding  from  him, 
that  on  the  23d  of  December  he  'must  be  in  London, 
in  order  to  prepare  for  entering  on  his  new  situation 
with  the  commencement  of  the  year !  He  said  she 
should  have  the  management  of  the  business  for  the 
next  twelve  months,  but  that  if  there  were  loss,  it 
must  stand  against  her  uncle's  name  ;  he  would  keep 
to  the  bargain  she  had  made  with  him, — the  five 
hundred  pounds  was  the  purchase-money  of  the  con- 
cern. He  washed  his  hands  of  the  affair,  he  said,  and 
would  be  responsible  for  no  further  loss ;  and  if,  at 
the  end  of  the  twelve  months,  it  did  not  answer,  the 
uncle  must  make  his  best  of  it,  and  she  must  go  to 


A  TURN  IN  THE  TIDE.  103 

London.  He  himself,  he  said,  had  found  a  friend, 
too,  who  had  advanced  him  five  hundred  pounds ;  he 
would  settle  with  all  his  creditors,  and  thus  leave  her 
and  her  uncle  a  fair  field  to  start  upon. 

Mr.  Morland  went,  as  he  said  he  should,  on  the 
23d  of  December,  but  not,  however,  before  he  had 
compensated  to  his  wife  for  his  former  coldness  to  her. 
The  truth  was,  he  loved  her  better  than  he  ever 
fancied  he  could  love  a  wife ;  and  all  the  noble  efforts 
she  had  made  to  save  him  from  ruin  touched  his 
heart  deeply. 

"  I  cannut  think,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  was 
putting  up  a  case  of  those  exquisite  perfumes,  which 
she  had  prepared  with  such  singular  success,  as  a 
sample  of  what  he  was  able  to  supply  to  Nixon's  old 
customers,  "  I  cannot  think,"  mused  he,  "  how  a 
worthless,  wretched  dog  like  me,  who  cannot  manage 
to  keep  a  good  business  from  bankruptcy,  ever  came 
to  get  such  a  good  wife  !" 

He  rolled  up  the  black  morocco  sample-case,  and 
went  on  thinking  of  his  wife,  and  liow  much  hand- 
somer she  really  was,  and  how  vastly  superior  every 
way  to  all  those  handsome  clever  landladies  who,  at 
so  many  an  inn  which  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  frequent,  used  to  be  his  admiration. 

"  Hang  it !"  thought  he  to  himself,  as  he  put  the 
sample-case  into  his  carpet-bag,  "the  wannest  wel- 
come is  not  always  at  an  inn.  I'm  spoiled  for  travelling 
now,  I'm  afraid  ;  and  with  such  a^wife  it's  no  wonder ; 
and  yet  I  can't  think  how  ever  I  had  the  impudence 
to  ask  her  to  have  me ;  however,  I'll  save  something 
out  of  ray  guinea  a-day,  as  sure  as  my  name  is 
Morland  ;  and,  instead  of  buying  so  many  clothes  for 
myself,  I'll  now  and  then  buy  somethmg  for  her  !" 


104 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


A    SECOND    CHRISTMAS-DAY. 


It  was  Christmas  Day — a  cold,  wet,  and  miserable 
Christmas  Day  ;  and  Mrs.  Morland,  who  had,  spite  of 
the  weather,  been  to  church — for  when  the  heart  is  sad, 
it  is  naturally  disposed  to  communion  with  its  Maker^ 
sate  late  in  the  evening,  as  she  had  sate  for  the  greatest 
part  of  the  afternoon,  alone  and  sunk  in  deep  thought, 
by  her  own  fireside.  She  had  been  taking  a  review 
of  her  past  life,  and  looking  forward  to  the  future, 
and  had  been  covenanting  v,ith  herself  and  with  God 
for  the  conscientious  and  zealous  and  unwavering 
fulfilment  of  all  the  requirings  of  her  duty,  let  them 
be  what  they  might.  Her  thoughts  were  serious, 
but  not  desponding;  and,  like  a  light,  at  once  cheering 
and  warm,  there  lived  about  her  heart  the  remem- 
brance of  her  husband's  parting  words.  Let  us  see 
what  they  were  as  she  at  that  moment  recalled 
them  to  her  mind — "  God  bless  you,  Ellen,  and  let 
me  tell  you  what  I  think  of  myself.  I  ought  to  be 
torn  with  wild  horses  for  not  making  you  a  better 
husband.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I  never  thought 
what  sort  of  husband  you  deserved  till  of  late  ;  but  I 
shall  be  an  altered  man,  Ellen,  and  all  the  good  that 
comes  to  us  is  owing  to  you  !  I  can't  think  how  in 
the  world  you  came  to  marry  me ;  but  I'll  make  you 
a  good  husband  yet,  never  fear!  and  I'll  rtiake  you 
amends  one  ^^  ay  or  another,  that  I  will !     And  so, 


A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-DAY.  105 

flod  bless  you,  Ellen ;  and  take  care  of  yourself,  for 
my  sake  ;  but  don't  cry  now,  Ellen  !  and  I  shall  write 
to  you  every  Sunday.  I  am  no  great  church-goer,  as 
you  know,  but  love  to  one's  wife — and  such  a  wife 
as  you — is  every  bit  as  good  as  religion ;  and  whenever 
I  think  of  you  I  shall  bless  God,  and  that  is  religion, 
too  !  But  I  must  go,  or  I  shall  cry  myself;  and  a 
big  fellow  like  me  looks  such  a  fool  crying  !  So,  good- 
bye !"  And  as  he  went  out  of  the  .house  he  blew  his 
nese  very  Igudly,  which  his  wife  never  failed  to 
remember  also,  for  it  was  a  sign  that,  big  fellow  as 
he  was,  he  could  not  help  crying  too. 

Mrs.  jMorland  sate  by  her  fire  quite  alone  ;  and 
while  she  was  thus  sitting,  the  Barkers,  and  the 
Pocklingtons,  and  dozens  of  people  beside — all  those, 
in  fact,  who  had  met  at  the  Sopworths',  of  Somraer- 
ton,  twelve  months  before,  with  the  exception  of 
the  Morlands  and  old  Crawley  and  his  niece,  met 
there  again  for  another  Christmas  party.  Again 
there  was  the  same  good  dinner  ;  the  same  swinging 
mistletoe,  the  same  games,  and  the  same  merriment ; 
but  at  dinner  and  supper,  and  even  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  mirth,  two  most  interesting  topics  occupied 
every  one ;  and  they  were  the  ruin  of  Mr.  Crawley 
and  the  embarrassment  of  Mr.  Morland.  According 
to  them,  Crawley  was  a  bankrupt  not  worth  a  penny 
in  the  pound  ;  and  if  Morland  could  pay  half-a-crown, 
that  was  the  outside. 

"  And  what  will  become  of  Miss  Wheeler  ?"  asked 
some  one. 

''  What  will  young  Sop  worth  do  ?"  or,  "  Was  it 
only  a  flirtation  ?"  asked  many  another  ;  and  to  these 
last  questions  the  very  next  moment  seemed  to  give 


106  A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

answer,  in  what  they  beheld  before  them.  Barbara 
Pocklington  was  telling  fortunes  with  cards ;  and 
Mark  Sopworth,  who  was  leaning  over  the  back  of 
her  chair,  kept  whispering  in  her  ear.  Nobody  heard 
exactly  what  he  whispered,  but  Barbara  looked  more 
than  pleased  ;  and  somebody  who  saw  it  declared, 
afterwards,  that  he  not  only  whispered  into  her  ear, 
but  that  he  impressed  a  kiss  upon  her  clieek. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  everybody,  "  the  Pocklingtons 
have  very  good  fortunes  ;  old  Mr.  Pocklington  farms 
on  his  own  land,  and  Mr.  Mark  Sopworth  might  do 
a  deal  worse  than  marry  the  handsome  Barbara !  " 

Nobody  whatever  that  Christmas  day  seemed  to 
think  that  there  was  the  least  chance  of  Mary 
Wheeler  becoming  Mrs.  Mark  Sopworth.  Then, 
as  for  Mrs.  Morland  I  AVell !  it  was  the  oddest 
thing  in  the  v.orld  that  Morland  should  take  to  his 
travelling  again;  and  his  wife  take  upon  herself  the 
management  of  a  half- ruined  concern  like  that!  It 
was  very  odd  indeed  !  for  somebody  had  said  that 
Mrs.  Morland  really  could  manage  the  distilling  and 
all  that,  better  even  than  her  husband;  but  it  was 
not  at  all  likely,  for  how  could  she  read  Latin  ?  And 
yet,  old  Matthew  said  she  did  manage,  one  way  or 
another,  and  went  on,  for  all  the  world,  just  as  Mr. 
Nixon  used  to  do.  It  was  a  very  odd  thing,  they 
said,  and  more  especially  as  everybody  expected  to 
find  Morland's  name  in  the  Gazette  ;  but  all  his 
town  bills  were  paid,  and  that  did  not  much  look  like 
bankruptcy  ;  but,  at  all  events,  there  was  an  end  of 
her  gentility.  They  wondered  now  whether  sho 
would  go  out  in  all  her  fine  satins  and  velvets;  they 
should  not,  they  were  sure,  if  they  were  in  her  place, 


A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-DAY.  107 

seeing  she  was  not  much  better  than  a  bankrupt'^ 
wife,  and  a  deserted  wife  into  the  bargain. 

Somebody  said,  that,  as  to  dressing,  she  dressed 
every  bit  as  well  as  ever;  they  had  seen  her  at  the 
parish-church  that  morning,  and  she  was  dressed  ever 
BO  grand  !  But,  however,  this  time  next  year  would 
show  what  would  be  the  end  of  all  this  !  Yes,  said 
everybody,  they  should  see  this  time  next  year  ! 

Whilst  people  were  thus  talking  of  her,  she  wtis 
sitting,  as  we  have  seen,  by  her  own  fireside,  think- 
ing of  her  husband  and  his  parting  words.  The 
sleety  rain  drove  against  the  window;  the  wind 
howled  down  tlie  chimney,  and  all  at  once,  the  dismal 
weather  without  forced  itself,  as  it  were,  upon  her 
heart.  She  thought  of  poor  wanderers  and  home- 
less people  ;  of  wretched  mothers,  and  little  children, 
night-travellers  on  the  tops  of  coaches  ;  she  thought 
of  her  husband — great-coated,  yet  cold — who,  on  many 
a  night  like  this,  would  be  driving  on  in  an  open  gig, 
over  wide  windy  moors,  towards  some  dreary  great 
town,  where  he  had  no  friends,  and  only  a  noisy  ina 
for  his  home ;  and  as  she  thought,  life  seemed  a  sad  and 
painful  chapter  of  miseries.  She  stirred  up  the  fire, 
which  was  burning  black,  to  cheer  away  the  despond- 
ency which  seemed  creeping  over  her,  and  just  at 
that  moment,  Becky  burst  into  the  room,  and  at  once 
diverted  her  thoughts  and  demanded  her  attention. 

'  Only  tliink  !"  exclaimed  she,  "  of  that  old  brute 
at  the  end  of  the  yard  !  He  has  turned  out  that  poor 
thing  on  a  night  like  this  into  the  driving  rain,  with 
nothing  but  a  shawl  over  her  head;  and  she  his  own 
flesh  and  hlood,  as  one  Diay  say  ! " 

"  Mary  'Wheeler  tJ-.:j7ed  out  on  a  night  like  thisl  * 


108  A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

said  Mrs.  Morland.  "  Fetch  her  in  !  "  exclaimed  she, 
rushing  at  once  to  tlie  door.  Becky  opened  the  front 
door,  and  the  wild  wind  which  met  them  almost 
took  away  their  breath. 

Mrs.  Morland  looked  out,  but  the  night  was  pitch- 
dark.  Sopworth's  back-shop  windows,  as  it  was 
Christmas-day,  were  all  closed,  and  not  a  glimmer  of 
light  shone  in  heaven  or  on  earth,  and  the  driving 
rain  beat  into  her  face. 

''  Oh,  you  can't  go  out ! "  said  Becky ;  "  she 
stands,  poor  thing,  in  the  shed  below  Sopworth's 
kitchen,  by  her  uncle's  door ;  but  the  rain  drives 
through  the  broken  roof,  and  she  will  be  wet  to  the 
skin ! " 

"  Fetch  her  in  !  fetqji  her  in  !  for  Heaven's  sake  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Morland,  hastening  back  to  the  parlour, 
and  piling  up  a  good  fire;  whilst  the  kind-hearted 
Becky,  almost  as  full  of  pity  as  her  mistress,  threw 
her  apron  over  her  head,  and  went  out  into  the 
Btorm. 

Mary  came  in  very  pale  and  wet,  and  looking  ill, 
and  very  wretched.  Her  hair,  which  was  dripping 
with  rain,  hung  forlornly  about  her  face  ;  there  was 
something  so  wild  and  melancholy  in  her  appearance, 
that  Mrs.  Morland  was  almost  frightened. 

'•  Why  did  you  not  come  at  once  to  me  ! "  said  she, 
somewhat  reproachfully  ;  "  you  ought  to  have  known 
that  I  should  stand  your  friend !  " 

"It  is  a  miserable  thing  to  have  no  home,"  re- 
turned the  poor  girl  ;  "and  I  have  been  so  wretched, 
tliat  I  cared  not  what  became  of  me.  I  knew,"  con- 
tinued she,  ''•  how  good,  how  inexpressibly  good  you 
were  ;  but  it  is  possible  to  be  miserable  even  beyond 
caring  for  oneself !  " 


A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-DAY.  100 

**  You  should  not  say  so  !  You  should  not  think 
so!"  said  Mrs.  Morland.  "God  gives  us  friends, 
Mary,  that  they  may  help  us ;  he  makes  our  friends 
the  instruments  of  his  mercy." 

"  I  have  had  dreadful  thoughts — dreadful  tempta- 
tions this  night,"  at  length  she  said  ;  "  but  thank  God 
the  worst  is  over  now.  I  thouglit  of  Ned — and  I 
thought  of  you,  dear  Mrs.  Morland,  and  I  prayed  to 
be  able  to  resist  temptation,  and  strength  was  given 
me  for  it.  I  was  coming  to  ask  you  for  present 
shelter,  and  for  counsel — for,  God  help  me,  1  need  a 
friend  ! — when  Becky  came  to  me  ! " 

Like  the  tenderestof  mothers  or  sisters,  Mrs.  Mor- 
land took  her  into  her  own  warm  chamber,  and  laid 
her  in  her  own  bed,  comforting  her,  and  encouraging 
her  to  open  her  whole  heart,  and  make  her  troubles 
light  by  revealing  them.  But  it  would  not  have 
been  possible  to  make  her  troubles  light,  nor  was  it 
possible  either  for  her,  in  the  state  of  mind  she  then 
was,  to  have  revealed  them  all.  But  though  the  kind 
Mrs.  Morland  only  at  that  time  knew  Mary's  troubles 
in  part,  we  can  tell  something  of  them  to  the  reader. 

Mr.  Crawley,  who  had  lived  for  weeks  under  the 
hourly  fear  of  arrest,  poured  the  whole  rigour  of  his 
tyrannical  temper  on  his  unhappy  niece.  He  was  at 
length  bent  upon  sending  her,  or  rather  conveying 
her  to  London,  to  an  acquaintance  of  his  of  very 
questionable  character,  with  whom  he  promised  him- 
self, as  well  as  her,  a  comfortable  home.  She  refused  ; 
and  at  length,  wrought  up  to  passion,  which  knew  no 
bounds,  and  was  terrible  to  witness,  he  had  struck 
her,  entered  her  chamber,  locked  up  her  few  poe- 
Bcsaions,  taken  the   key,  and,   throwing  to  her  ft 


110  A  SECOND  CHRISIMAS-DAY. 

woollen  shawl,  had  turned  her  out  penny  less  into 
the  wild  night.  Mary  described  somewhat  of  her 
feelings  at  that  time ;  she  stood,  she  knew  not  how 
long,  before  the  door  in  the  open  rain  and  wind, 
without  one  definite  thought,  but  of  utter  wretched- 
ness ;  the  world,  she  said,  seemed  so  wide  ;  but  she 
had  no  home  in  it,  and  as  it  seemed,  no  hope.  Sho 
thouglit  of  her  brother ;  but  the  wind  howled  round 
her,  and  the  thought  of  shipwreck  and  misery  by 
sea  fell  on  her  soul  like  death.  A  kind  of  dark  fore- 
boding came  over  her,  that  she  should  never  see  him 
again,  for  that  he  was  lost ;  and  a  strong  wish  to  die 
took  possession  of  her.  In  that  dark  moment,  too, 
she  thought  of  Mark  Sopworth,  and  then  came  back 
the  bitter  thought  which  had  hung  about  her  all  the 
day,  nay,  which  had  haunted  her  for  many  days, 
that  he  and  his  sister  were  at  Summerton ;  that  it 
was  Christmas-day ;  that  the  party  which  had  met 
there  the  year  before,  was  there  again — yet,  that 
she  had  not  even  been  invited,  was  perhaps  forgotten 
by  them.  She  was  of  no  consequence  to  them  ;  they 
could  rejoice  without  her ;  they  could  be  gay,  even 
while  the  bitterness,  as  of  death,  was  on  her  soul. 
She  thought  of  Barbara  Pocklington — and  the  miser- 
able feeling  of  jealousy  stung  her  heart  almost  to 
madness.  Heaven  forgive  her  !  for  she  loved  truly, 
and  could  not  have  wounded,  even  in  thought,  the 
heart  she  loved  !  Whilst  she  was  thus  suffering 
from  the  intensest  torture  which  the  soul  can  expe- 
rience, a  simple,  and  otherwise  almost  ridiculous 
circumstance  occurred,  which  only  yet  more  har- 
rowed her  excited  feelings ;  this  was  the  conversa- 
tion of  two  servants — Ann  at  the  Sopworths,  and 


A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS -DAY.  Ill 

the  Barkers'  Sarah.  They  came  into  the  back- 
kitchen,  near  which  poor  Mary  was  standing,  and 
while  Ann  cleaned  a  saucepan,  in  which  she  was 
intending  to  mull  some  wine,  Sarah  held  the  candle, 
and  thus  they  continued  the  conversation,  which 
seemed  to  have  commenced  before. 

"Bless  me!"  said  the  Barkers'  Sarah,  "marry 
her  !  never  !  for  all  she 's  as  fond  of  him  as  ever  can 
be  !  I  heard  our  missis  say  so  myself !  Miss  Bar- 
bara," continued  she,  "will  have  two  thousand 
pounds  on  her  wedding-day." 

"  "VFhicli  do  yc$L  think  the  handsomest  ? "  asked 
Ann. 

"  Miss  Barbara,"  returned  Sarah  ;  "  she  has  so 
much  more  colour.  Miss  "Wheeler  is  the  genteelest, 
may  be  :  but  I  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for  gentility." 

"  Yes,  she  is  very  handsome,"  said  Ann  :  "  she  is  a 
deal  with  our  folks  now-a-days ;  and  it  was  very 
pretty  of  her  to  give  me  the  lace  for  my  cap." 

"  The  Pocklingtons  give  a  dance  on  New  Year'* 
Eve,"  said  Sarah,  "and  our  folks  go,  of  course." 

"  And  ours  too,"  said  Ann  ;  "  master  has  got  a  new 
coat  to  go  in.  Oh,  it  will  be  a  match,  as  sure  as  I'm 
alive ;  and  yet,  I  used  to  think  he  was  very  fond  of 
Miss  Wheeler." 

"It  was  she  as  was  so  fond  of  him,"  said  Sarah ; 
«ind  with  the*i  words,  the  saucepan  being  sufficiently 
cleaned,  the  two  returned  to  the  kitchen,  leaving  poor 
Mary  heart-sick,  and  doubly  wretched. 

The  very  servants  talked  of  her  love  for  him. 
Heaven  help  us  !  how  very  little  can  any  heart  bear 
to  have  the  naked  truth  rudely  presented  to  it ! 
Shame  and  humiliation  seemed  at  once  to  crush  her 


H2  A  SECOND  CHUISTMAS-DAY. 

to  the  eartli,  and  make  her  utterly  despise  herself. 
She  thought  of  self-destruction,  and,  almost  frantic, 
rushed  into  the  shed,  where  she  sat  for  an  hour  or 
more,  and  where  Becky,  going  for  fuel,  had  seen  her. 

Better  thoughts  at  length  came  over  her.  She 
recalled  the  memory  of  her  parents ;  she  thought  of 
her  beloved  brother,  and  of  Mrs.  Morland,  who  had 
always  been  so  steadily  kind  to  her.  Tears  of  affection 
and  tenderness  gushed  from  her  eyes  ;  she  sank  on 
her  knees,  and  prayed  for  strength  and  resignation, 
and  then,  calmer,  if  not  more  hopeful  in  spirit,  rose 
up,  determined  to  sin  neither  against  God  nor  man, 
but  to  ask  protection  and  advice  from  Mrs.  Morland, 
whom,  it  seemed  to  her  at  that  moment,  was  the 
ftiend  jmrposely  designed  by  Heaven  to  help  her. 

Nothing,  however,  could  Mrs.  Morland  advise  for 
the  present  ;  and  nothing  definite  could  be  done,  for 
the  immediate  consequence  of  Mary's  excitement  and 
exposure  to  the  weather  was  violent  fever,  which,  for 
a  considerable  time,  endangered  even  her  life. 

Mr.  Crawley  was  arrested,  and  without  the  power 
of  finding  bail ;  the  creditors  took  possession  of  all  his 
effects,  and  he  himself  was  removed  to  prison.  Mary 
was  unconscious  of  all  that  was  going  on  around  her ; 
but  Mrs.  Morland,  ever  watchful,  and  ever  thought- 
ful, interfered  with  the  creditors,  and  saved  for  her 
her  few  possessions,  the  keys  of  which  Mr.  Crawley 
obstinately  refused  to  give  up  to  any  one,  but  kept 
with  him  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  even  in  his  prison. 

The  Pocklingtons  gave  their  dance  on  New  Year's 
Eve,  to  whicli,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  Sopworths 
went — Mr.  Mark  in  his  new  coat,  made  })inposely  for 
the  occasion,  as  his  servant  still  persisted  in  saying. 


A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-DAY.  113 

And,  again,  what  a  fertile  topic  of  conversation  waa 
old  Crawley  and  his  affairs  !  his  cruelty  to  his  niece  ; 
her  illness,  and  Mrs.  Morland's  kindness  to  her  ; — it 
was  quite  a  God-send  to  the  party. 

"  Well,  and  what  will  become  of  poor  Miss 
^V'heele^?"  asked  many  a  one.  She  must  go  out 
somewhere,  everybody  agreed ;  perhaps  into  a  shop, 
or  perhaps  into  a  school,  or  perhaps  she  would  live 
altogether  with  Mrs.  Morland,  now  that  Mrs.  Mor- 
land  lived  alone,  and  maintain  herself  with  her  needle. 
Everybody  pitied  her,  and  many  a  one  kept  their  eye 
fixed,  while  they  talked  of  her,  on  Mark  Sopworth, 
to  see  how  he  looked  ;  but  Mark  was  aware  of  that, 
and  though  all  declared  that  he  looked  out  of  spirits, 
he  either  was  gay,  or  assumed  purposely  an  air  of 
gaiety. 

Every I'ody  said  that  they  had  never  seen  Barbara 
look  so  handsome  before  ;  and  Barbara  devoted  her- 
self that  night,  as  everybody  said,  to  fascinate  young 
Sopworth  ;  but  as  for  that,  all  the  Pocklington  family 
overwhelmed  him,  and  his  whole  connexions,  with 
civilities. 

"  Oh,  it  will  be  a  match,  as  sure  as  I  am  alive  ! " 
whispered  many  a  one. 

One  person  had  heard  old  Pocklington  and  young 
Sopworth  t  liking  about  somebody  purchasing  the 
lease  of  Crawley's  premises  from  the  creditors.  Ano- 
ther said  it  was  young  Sopworth  who  was  going  to 
purchase  ;  he  had  said  he  was  intending  to  live  in  old 
Crawley's  house,  and  should  turn  his  own  sitting- 
room  into  a  warehouse.  There  was,  too,  a  deal  of 
talk  on  family  affairs,  between  the  two  mothers. 
Mrs.  Pocklington  took  Mrs.  Sopworth  into  her  bed- 
l2 


114  A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

room,  where  there  was  a  fire,  and  there  they  two  sat 
talking  quite  confidentially  together  for  more  than  an 
hour.  Nol)ody  had  the  slightest  doubt  but  that  the 
marriage  of  these  two  young  people  had  become  quite 
a  family  affair. 

That  evening,  Mary's  life  was  despaired  of;  and 
Mrs.  Morland  thought  much  less  of  the  letter  she  had 
received  that  day  from  her  husband,  though  it  was 
the  first  he  had  written  since  his  departure,  than  she 
did  of  her  young  friend,  who  lay  insensible  on 
her  bed. 

She  sat  on  one  side  the  bed,  and  Dr.  Wentworth, 
the  physician  whom  she  had  called  in,  sat  on  the 
other.  He  showed  the  warmest  interest  for  his 
patient ;  and  no  wonder,  for  she  was  young  and 
lovely,  and  Dr.  Wentworth  was  one  of  the  very  best 
and  kindest  of  men,  whom  all  loved,  but  more  espe- 
cially the  poor.  He  was  unmarried,  and  perhaps  five- 
and-thirty^  and  lived  vrith  a  respectable  old  house- 
keeper, and  a  good  establishment  of  servants,  in  one 
of  the  best  houses  of  the  town.  Mrs.  Morland  had 
known  him  only  by  character,  till  she  called  him  in 
to  her  young  inmate ;  but  they  very  soon  became 
intimate  as  old  friends.  He  often  prolonged  his 
visits  to  half  an  hour,  or  rather  so  arranged  his  visit 
that  he  could  stay  thus  long  with  them.  He  had 
done  so  on  this  occasion;  and  they  two  had  talked  over 
the  virtues,  the  sorrows,  and  the  desolate  prospects  of 
the  young  sufferer  before  them,  till  their  hearts 
seemed  overfiowing  with  Christian  love  and  sympathy. 
"  I  shall  send  my  housekeeper  to  sit  up  with  her  to- 
night," said  he,  rising  to  take  his  leave ;  "  we  must 
not  make  unreasonable  demands  on  you,  Mrs.  Mor- 


A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-DAY.  115 

land ;  to-morrow  niglit  you  shall  again  sit  up  with 
her — to-night  you  must  sleep." 

Dr.  Wentworth's  housekeeper  came,  the  very  per- 
sonification of  benevolence,  cleanliness,  and  kindness. 
It  was  a  real  comfort  to  see  her  in  the  chamber; 
Bnd,  leaving  Mary  in  her  care,  Mrs.  Morland  lay 
down  for  a  few  hours  in  the  next  room. 

Mary  was  no  better  the  next  day,  nor  for  the  three 
days  following.  Lizzy  Sopworth  stayed  at  the  Pock- 
lingtons'  for  a  week,  and  Mark,  when  he  returned 
home,  on  the  third  day  of  the  New  Year,  was  greeted 
with  the  news,  that  it  was  doubtful  whether  Mary 
would  live  through  the  day.  If  faith  could  be  put 
in  the  countenance  of  man,  he  was  not  only  surprised, 
but  greatly  distressed  ;  if  he  never  had  loved  her 
before,  he  felt  as  if  he  really  loved  her  then ;  and  the 
recollection  of  many  things  which  had  occurred  since 
this  last  Christmas-day,  since  Barbara  Pocklington 
and  he  had  been  so  much  together,  rose  up  in  his 
mind  like  accusing  spirits. 

Like  many  another  man,  Mark  Sopworth  was 
infirm  of  purpose  ;  the  present  wind,  from  whatever 
point  it  might  blow,  carried  him  before  it.  He  had 
been  hurried  on,  as  it  then  seemed  to  him,  farther 
than  he  ever  intended  with  Barbara  Pocklington ; 
he  really  loved  Mary  Wheeler,  and  he  knew  it  now, 
though  he  had  never  felt  quite  sure  of  it  before  !  So 
argued  he  for  the  first  momer>t,^nd  gave  way  to  a 
despondency  of  feeling  which  indicated  itself  in  his 
countenance,  and  gave  every  one  of  his  shopmen  a 
•omething  to  talk  about. 

It  is  true,  thought  he  to  himself  in  the  course  of 
Ihe  day,  that  no  positive  declaration  and  proposal  hai 


116  A  SECOND  CUKISTMAS-DAT. 

been  made  to  Barbara  Pocklington  ;  but  it  was  vain  to 
endeavour  to  persuade  himself  that  it  had  not  been 
implied.  He  had  gone  no  farther  with  her,  nor 
indeed  so  far,  as  with  Mary  Wheeler;  but  then, 
Barbara,  unlike  poor  Mar}*,  had  friends  to  stand  by 
her — brothers,  and  father,  and  mother,  and  sisters; 
and  then,  there  were  his  own  family — father,  and 
mother,  and  sister,  too,  who  all  would  expect  this 
from  him  ;  what  a  host  they  were  !  and  if  he  did  not 
fear  to  disappoint  any  hopes  he  had  excited  in  Bar- 
bara herself,  he  did  fear  all  tliis  combined  force  of  hef 
friends.  If  it  were  not  for  all  these  people,  thought 
Mark,  I  would  give  up  Barbara  at  once,  for  I  love 
Mary  a  thousand  times  better  !  And  then  he  thought 
of  her  death  :  and  liow  if  she  died — what  then  ?  he 
should  be  quite  free  to  marry  Barbara,  if  he  then 
liked ;  but,  oh  no  !  if  Mary  died  he  never  would 
marry — at  least,  not  for  many  years ;  it  was  a  beauti- 
ful thing  to  love  truly  !  But  he  hoped,  above  all 
things,  that  she  would  not  die ;  for  if  she  died,  he 
never  should  be  happy  again  ! 

Mark  was  extremely  glad  that  his  sister  was  not  at 
home,  for  if  she  had,  he  never  could  have  let  her  see 
his  feelings  ;  and  he  never  should  have  ventured  to 
go,  as  he  now  would,  as  soon  as  ever  it  was  dusk,  and 
ring  softly  at  Mrs.  Morland's  door,  and  learn  some- 
thing himself  about  the  poor  girl, 

Mrs.  Morland,  who  never  doubted  but  that  Mark 
Sopworth  really  and  truly  loved,  thought  it  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  that  he  should  look  pale 
and  ill,  and  that  he  should  be  almost  too  much 
agitated  to  speak  ;  so  she  talked  to  him  in  the  most 
kind  and  friendly  manner;  told  him  how  ill  pool 


A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-DAY.  117 

Mary  was,  but  fearing  to  distress  him  too  much,  gave 
him  hope,  and  said  that  she  really  believed  she  would 
get  better ;  and  then  she  began  to  say  how  good  and 
amiable  she  was,  and  how  sure  she  was  that  every- 
body who  loved  her  would  come  forward  and  show 
their  regard ;  that  she  was  so  pleased  he  had  been, 
for  she  knew  what  he  must  be  suffering  in  his  own 
mind ;  and  that  she  was  sure  Mary  might  depend 
upon  her  friends.  Oh,  she  was  so  very  good  and 
charming !  said  she  in  her  enthusiasm,  offering  her 
hand,  as  if  in  congratulation  to  Mark  ;  and  he  might 
depend  upon  it  she  would  take  all  the  care  of  her 
that  was  possible,  for  she  knew  very  well  what  his 
feelings  must  be  ! 

Mrs.  Morland's  words  made  him  very  uncomfort- 
able, strange  as  it  may  seem,  for  he  \v;is  not  quite 
prepared  for  anybody  else  thinking  he  ought  to  marry 
her,  or  that  he  was  in  love  with  her.'  Nevertheless, 
as  Lizzy  was  not  at  home,  he  went  in  most  evenings, 
when  it  was  dusk ;  and,  though  he  never  again 
allowed  Mrs.  Morland  time  for  any  particular  con- 
versation with  him,  he  only  strengthened  her  belief 
by  this  attention,  and  kept  alive  his  own  inferest  so 
strongly,  that  he  almost  came  to  the  heroic  deter- 
mination that  he  would  marry  her  when  she  got 
better,  spite  of  everybody. 

A  week  went  on,  and  Mary  was  pronounced  quite 
out  of  danger.  Dr.  Wentworth,  who  had  come  twice 
a  day,  came  now  but  once  :  and  when  he  was  asked  of 
her,  had  replied,  yes,  yes,  he  could  give  hope  now ; 
ahe  had  youth  in  her  favour,  and  a  good  constitution ; 
and  he  trusted,  nay,  he  felt  tolerably  sure,  that  sho 
would  recover. 


118  A  SECONFl  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

It  was  astonishing  how  much  anxiety  and  whal 
general  interest-  was  excited  about  her.  Peoj)le  who 
had  li^rdly  ever  spoken  to  her  or  Mrs.  Morland  in 
their  lives,  came  forward  and  offered  their  services, 
and  thanked  good  Mrs.  Morland  for  her  benevolence, 
just  as  if  tliey  themselves  had  been  benefited  by  it ; 
they  said  she  had  come  there  a  stranger  among  them, 
and  had  set  them  such  a  beautiful  example,  that  they 
looked  upon  her  as  a  public  benefactor.  It  was  quite 
cheering  to  s^e  how  much  enthusiasm  and  good  feel- 
ing was  excited  ;  and  Mark  Sopworth  felt  it  comfort- 
able to  hide  his  own  individual  feelings  in  the  general 
excitement ;  and  without  much  difficulty,  now  every- 
body sent  to  inquire  after  her,  he  could  present  him- 
self at  Mrs.  Morland's  door  without  waiting  for  the 
privacy  of  the  dusk;  nor  was  he  quite  sure  whether, 
if  his  family  were  in  the  town,  they  would  not  get 
as  enthusiastic,  not  to  say  as  heroic  in  love,  as  himself. 

Lizzy  was  coming  home,  however,  and  Mark  went 
in  the  afternoon  of  that  day  to  inquire  after  Mary, 
that  he  might  be  able,  as  he  said,  to  give  his  sister  the 
latest  intelligence  when  she  came.  Mrs.  Morland 
was  just  coming  out  of  her  laboratory,  where  for  the 
first  time  she  had  been  busied  since  Mary's  illness, 
and  was  then  going  with  her  sewing  in  her  hand  to 
her  room,  when  Becky  opened  the  front  door  to  Mark 
Sopworth. 

"  Mary  is  better — really  better  !  "  said  Mrs.  Mor- 
land, quite  gaily.  She  then  told  how  calm  she  was, 
how  grateful  to  everybody,  and  really  looked  so 
much  like  herself  again,  that  it  was  quite  a  pleasure 
to  see  her.  He  looked  so  pleased  by  wliat  she  told 
him ;  and    Mrs.    Morland   could   not  resist  saying, 


A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-DAY.  119 

"Do  corne  up  and  see  her!  Poor  girl,  it  -will  make 
her  so  happy  to  see  you  !  Go  into  the  dining-room, 
Mr.  Mark,  while  I  go  and  prepare  her  for  your 
visit !" 

"  Mary,  dearest,"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  going  into 
her  room,  "here  is  a  friend  come  to  see  you,  hut 
you  shall  not  see  him  unless  you  promise  to  be  quite 
calm  ;  it  is  a  friend  who  loves  you  dearly,  and  would 
be  as  sorry  to  agitate  you  as  I  should.  Now,  be  a 
good  girl,  and  keep  calm.  There,  you  look  very 
pretty  now!  A  night- cap  really  is  very  becoming; 
and  I  assure  you,"  said  she,  kissing  her,  "that 
you  never  looked  lovelier  in  your  life.  Pne  can't 
help  thinking  of  those  things,  you  know;  and  I 
would  not  have  let  him  come,  if  you  had  not  looked 
80  nice !  There  now,  I  think  if  you  were  a  queen 
you  could  not  be  more  in  order ! " 

So  said  Mrs.  Morland,  happy  in  the  thought  that 
she  was  about  to  bring  two  loving  hearts  together; 
and  then,  with  looks  beaming  with  pleasure,  went 
down  and  bade  Mark  follow  her.  He  thought  of 
Mary  only,  as  he  had  seen  her  last  when  they  had 
walked  together  in  the  fields  below  the  town,  as  they 
often  did  ;  and,  though  he  knew  how  ill  she  had 
been,  he  never  had  realised  to  his  own  mind  the 
change  which  that  illness  had  made  upon  her.  What  a 
shock,  then,  was  it  to  him  when  he  entered  that  dark- 
ened chamber,  which  seemed  inexpressibly  solemn,  to 
find  her  lying  more  like  a  beautiful  corpse  than  a 
living  being,  on  the  bed  before  him  !  The  delicate 
hand  which  lay  on  the  bed-clothes,  but  which  the 
violence  of  fever  had  made  weaker  than  a  new-born 
child's  slightly  moved,  and  a  faint  blush  passed  over 


120  A  SECOND  CimiSTMAS-DAT. 

the  countenance,  which  welcomed  him,  hovvever,  with 
A  smile  that  seemed  almost  angelic. 

He  felt  as  if  he  could  die  for  her ;  as  if  he  could 
defy  both  his  family  and  Barbara  Pocklington's ; 
and  had  it  not  been,  perhaps,  for  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Morland,  he  might  have  fallen  on  his  knees  by  tho 
bed,  and  poured  out  the  most  passionate  declarations 
of  love.  He  did  not  do  so,  however ;  he  merely 
seated  himself  in  the  chair  by  the  bed,  which  Mrs. 
Morland  placed  for  him,  and  took  her  hand  in  his 
without  speaking  one  word ;  but  to  Mrs.  Morland's 
mind  his  silence  and  his  manner  spoke  more  than 
words,  and  she  was  greatly  pleased  with  him. 

"I  have  been  very  ill,"  said  Mary,  at  length,ina  lo\» 
voice ;  "  and  it  is  so  kind  of  you  to  come  and  see  me." 

He  said  a  great  deal ;  all  which  at  the  moment  he 
felt.  He  spoke  of  his  sorrow,  of  his  anxiety,  of  his 
sympathy,  and  of  his  happiness  now  that  she  was 
better.  She  would  soon  get  better,  he  said ;  and 
when  spring  came,  and  she  could  go  out,  she  must 
go,  he  said,  to  his  mother ;  he  would  get  her,  he  said, 
to  invite  her  for  some  weeks,  and  then  she  would  be 
well  nursed,  and  soon  would  be  strong  again  ;  Som- 
merton  was  so  warm  and  pleasant,  he  said,  and  Mary 
loved  the  country  so  much ! 

Thoughtless  Mark  Sopworth  !  And  did  he  really 
mean  and  believe  all  that  he  said  ?  Perhaps  not 
entirely ;  but  he  was  carried  away  by  the  impulse  of 
the  moment :  and  while  he  thought  to  himself,  "but 
suppose  my  mother  will  not  invite  her" — the  next 
moment  he  thought,  that  perhaps  he  could  persuade 
her  to  do  so — he  really  would  try,  and  it  was  such  a 
pleasure  to  be  generous  and  friendly  1 


A  SECOND  CHRISTMAS-OAr.  121 

Poor  Mary,  ^vho  saw  in  his  behaviour  everything 
to  which  lier  own  heart  could  so  joyfully  respond, 
felt  almost  overwhelmed  by  happiness  when  he  left 
her;  and  Mrs.  Morland,  perfectly  satisfied  that  all 
was  right,  grew  quite  warm  in  praise  of  his  lover-like 
conduct.  "It  is  just  what  I  expected  from  him," 
said  she.  "  I  knew  he  loved  you ;  but  now,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  be  quiet ;  don't  excite  yourself — you 
may  again  bring  on  fever  !" 

"  When  Mary  is  better,"  thought  she  to  herself, 
I  shall  contrive  that  they  shall  be  left  '^)gether.  The 
very  first  opportunity  he  will  make  a  declaration, 
and  then  all  will  be  aS  it  should  be." 

Mary  was  indescribably  happy  ;  she  believed  that 
she  was  really  loved.  He  of  whom  she  had  thought 
so  much  in  her  illness — nay,  God  forgive  her,  of 
whom  she  had  thought  when  she  believed  that  death 
was  before  her — was  true  to  her,  and  worthy  of  her  ! 
She  had  done  him  some  little  injustice — she  had 
doubted  of  his  truth  to  her  ;  but  now  !  Those  only 
who  know  the  happiness  of  doing  justice  to  one  we 
love,  can  appreciate  and  understand  what  Mary's 
feelings  were. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  FALSE  LOVE  AND  THE  TRUE  LOVE. 

As  Mark  was  leaving  the  door  he  met  his  own  maid- 
servant. He  had  been  seen  entering  Mrs.  IVIorland's 
house,  and  was  now  sent  for  to  his  own.  His  sister 
was  returned,  and  with  her  Barbara  Pocklingtou,  who 


122  tHE  FALSE  LOVE 

was  come  to  spend  the  night  with  her.  Barbara  was 
come  to  the  town  about  a  dress  which  was  being  made 
for  a  subscription  ball  in  a  neighbouring  town,  which 
would  be  given  on  the  fifth  of  next  month.  The  two 
girls  were  almost  in  wild  spirits.  Lizzy  wanted  to  go 
to  the  ball  too ;  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  do  so; 
but.  before  she  went  out  about  her  dress,  they 
wanted  to  know  if  Mark  would  not  go  too.  Mrs. 
Sopworth  would  go  with  them  as  chaperone  if  her 
son  went,  but  not  otherwise;  if  Mark  did  not  go, 
they  must  see  if  they  two  could  go  with  the  Websters; 
but  then  the  Websters  weic  such  horrid  people  !  He 
must  go  !  He  sliould  go  !  and  so  it  was  no  use  his 
thinking  of  anything  else. 

Mark,  however,  so  immediately  after  his  interview 
with  Mary,  was  not  in  any  humour  to  think  about 
subscription  balls,  and  more  particularly  of  going  to 
one  with  Barbara  Pocklington.  He  was  vexed  that 
Barbara  was  come  ;  was  vexed  with  them  both  for 
being  so  wild  and  foolish.  "  As  if  there  was  nothing 
in  this  world,"  he  said,  "  to  think  about  but  dancing 
and  jigging.  He  did  not  mean  to  go,  and  so  they 
need  not  ask  him  !" 

"  Well,  if  ever  I  heard  the  like  !"  exclaimed  Bar- 
bara, not  a  little  piqued. 

'Oh,  just  as  you  please  Mark,"  said  his  sister, 
tossing  her  head  :  "  there  '11  be  plenty  of  nice  young 
gentlementhere  without  you.  Thank  HeaV'ens, neither 
Barbara  nor  I  would  give  a  pin  for  dancing  with  you  !" 

The  two  girls  went  out  to  purchase  their  dresses, 
making  themselves  sure  that  he  would  go  after  all ; 
and  he  sate  down  in  an  ill  humour,  vowing  that  he 
never  would  go,  and  that  was  the  long  and  short  of  it. 


AND  THE  TRUE  LOVE.  ]?.! 

The  next  day  his  father  came;  and  they  two  were 
closeted  together.  His  father  came,  ostensibly,  about 
the  lease  of  the  premises  which  was  to  be  sold  the 
next  week  by  public  auction,  toj^ether  with  Mr. 
Crawley's  effects,  unless,  in  the  meantime,  it  were 
disposed  of  by  private  contract.  "It  was,"  his  father 
said,  and  so  the  son  knew,  "  extremely  desirable  that 
it  should  be  secured  for  him."  The  situation  was 
the  best  in  the  town  for  trade;  and  no  less  than  three 
different  parties  were  in  eager  treaty  about  it,  one  of 
whom  was  a  tea-dealer,  the  bitter  rival  in  trade  of 
Mark  Sopworth  himself.  "  There  was  no  possiblity," 
Mr.  Sop  worth,  sen.  said,  "  of  Morland's  purchasing, 
but  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Morland  that  day  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  she  was  extremely  anxious  that  Sopworth 
should  be  the  purchaser  ;  she  had  said  a  great  many 
handsome  things  about  his  son  :  said  she  should 
prefer  him  to  anybody,  both  for  neighbour  and  land- 
lord; and  that,  for  her  part,  and  she  would  answer  too 
for  her  husband,  they  would  rather  pay  an  advance 
of  rent  than  leave,  or  have  any  changes.  j\Ir.  Sop- 
worth, sen.  was  charmed  with  Mrs.  Morland ;  she 
was  a  straight-forward,  business-like  person  ;  and,  as 
everybody  said  she  was  making  her  husband's  business 
answer,  she  would  be  a  safe  tenant." 

Mark  agreed  to  every  word  his  father  said :  un- 
questionably the  premises  must  be  secured  to  him; 
he  thought  he  had  understood  his  father  to  say  that 
they  should  be. 

"  Why,  you  see,  Mark — "  said  the  father,  and 
then  paused. 

Mark  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  father,  and  wondered 
what  he  had  to  say. 


124  THE  FALSE  LOVE 

The  father  then  went  on  to  say  that,  for  his  part, 
he  could  not  conveniently  raise  the  money  ;  his  son 
had  had  already  a  good  deal;  and  it  really  was  a 
serious  thing  advancing  so  much  now-a-days.  But 
he  had,  he  said,  spoken  with  Mr.  Pocklington,  or 
rather  Mr.  Pocklington  had  mentioned  it  to  him. 

Mark  felt  a  sick  sensation  about  his  heart,  and  hii 
father,  who  always  spoke  very  slowly,  went  on.  Mr. 
Pocklington  had  said  that  he  had  no  objection  to 
advance  the  money  for  the  purchase  of  the  lease,  as 
he  understood  there  was  to  be  a  family  connection 
between  them.  ''  Now,"  said  Mr.  Sopworth,  "  this 
is  a  thing,  Mark,  that  has  my  consent ;  I  have  great 
respect  for  the  Pocklingtons  ;  we  've  known  one 
another  all  our  lives.  Your  mother,  too,  wishes  it 
above  all  things  ;  but  I  did  not  know  that  you  and 
Barbara  had  come  to  such  an  understanding.  She 's 
a  good  girl,  however ;  and  as  I  hate  flirting  and  non- 
sense, you  'd  better  get  married  pretty  soon.  Her 
father  will  give  her  the  lease  of  the  premises  in  part 
as  her  fortune  ;  and  I  think,  as  times  go,  you  may 
reckon  yourself  a  lucky  fellow." 

Mark  began  a  stammering  speech  to  his  father, 
which  his  father  could  not  understand  ;  at  least  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  son  meant  to  say  he  had 
not  made  up  his  mind ;  he  should  like  a  day  or  two 
to  consider  of  it ;  and  that  it  was  quite  a  mistake,  if 
anybody  said  he  and  Barbara  understood  one  another. 

The  old  gentleman  c(juld  hardly  believe  his  ears ; 
ho  said  that  his  wife  and  Lizzy,  as  well  as  old  Ralph 
Pocklington,  had  told  him  so.  What  did  his  son 
mean  ?  Did  he  mean  to  say  he  was  going  to  jilt 
Barbara?     If  that  was  his  meaning,  why,  then  he 


AND  THE  TRUE  LOVE.  ]  25 

might  take  his  own  course  !  he,  the  father,  would  go 
at  once  to  the  Pocklingtons  and  say  he  had  nothing 
to  do  -^ith  it,  and  he  would  cut  off  his  son  with  a 
shilling — that  he  would  ;  and  he  would  never  stir 
another  step  about  the  lease.  Brockham  might  buy 
it  for  anything  he  cared,  and  his  son  might 'be  a 
bankrupt  like  old  Crawley  ! 

Mark  was  not  at  all  prepared  for  this ;  it  quite 
frightened  him,  more  especially  as  his  father,  taking 
up  his  hat,  thrust  it  violent I3'  on  his  head,  and  went 
out,  banging  the  door  after  hini.  It  seemed  to  him 
like  a  foretaste  of  the  Avrath  to  con:ie,  if  he  should 
prefer  Mary  Wheeler  to  Barbara  Pocklington. 

"  "Well,  I  am  in  a  pretty  mess,"  thought  he  to 
himself,  "  and,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  do  n't  know  what 
I  am  to  do  !  "  He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in 
great  agitation,  and  at  last  looked  out  of  his  window 
into  tlie  yard.  The  principal  creditor  of  old  Crawley, 
and  the  rival  tea-dealer,  came  out  of  Crawley's  front 
door.  Mark  felt  as  if  the  chance  of  the  lease  were 
gone  for  ever,  and  that  decided  him  as  to  what  he 
should  do.  He  put  on  his  hat  and  followed  his 
father  to  the  Green  Dragon,  the  inn  at  which  he  put 
up  when  in  town  ;  but  his  father  had  mounted  his 
horse  and  was  gone. 

"  Strike  while  the  iron  is  hot ! "  thought  the  weak 
young  man  to  himself,  doubting  his  own  strength  of 
purpose  ;  "  if  I  see  Mary  Wheeler  again,  it  may  be 
too  late  to  run  back.  I  never  fairly  proposed  to  her. 
I  must  behave  ill  to  one  of  them— either  to  Mary  or 
to  Barbara.  Mary  I  love  the  best,  but  Barbara  has 
money  and  friends  who  can  help  me ;  besides,  it  is 
ay  fafher's  will — so  I  decide  !  " 
v2 


126  THE  falsi:  love 

**  It  is  my  father's  will !  "  said  he,  many  a  time 
to  himself,  '•'•  so  it  is  no  fault  of  mine  !  " 

His  father  was  pacified  hy  his  wise  decision,  as  he 
called  it,  and  his  mother  said  she  had  always  known, 
ever  since  Barbara  was  a  child,  that  it  would  be  a 
match  between  Mark  and  her  ;  and  nothing  could 
equal  the  good  humour  and  apparent  satisfiicticn  both 
of  father  and  mother.  The  next  morning  he  went 
to  the  Pocklingtons  and  made  his  declaration  in  due 
form ;  the  next  evening  the  two  families  drank  tea 
together  :  the  morning  afterwards  the  lease  was 
purchased  by  private  contract  by  old  Sopworth,  for 
his  son,  with  old  Pocklington's  money  i  and,  on  the 
5tli  of  February,  the  three  young  people  and  tlie  two 
mothers  went,  as  gay  as  could  be,  in  a  coach  hired 
for  the  occasion,  to  the  subscription  ball. 

Mary  Wheeler  was  recovering  daily  :  nay,  indeed, 
ever  since  that  afternoon  of  Mark  Sop  worth's  visit, 
she  had  recovered  strength  as  if  by  magic.  The  first 
days  of  February  were  mild  and  genial,  and  the  good 
Dr.  Wentworth  said  that  on  the  morrow  she  might 
leave  her  bed  for  an  hour  or  two,  and,  supported  by 
pillows,  take  her  tea  while  seated  in  the  great  easy 
chair. 

The  sun  shone  into  the  chamber  warm  and  cheer- 
fully, and  Mrs.  Morland,  who  had  received  a  most 
happy,  satisfactory  letter  from  her  husband,  went 
again  into  her  laboratory  to  prepare  a  fresh  supply 
for  the  demand  which  was  now  being  made  on  all 
hands  for  their  articles. 

Mary  sat,  in  her  long  white  wrapping- gown,  ia 
the  easy- chair,  occupying  herself  partly  by  reading 
and  partly  by  thoughts  which  were  not  anxious.   She 


AND  THE  TRUE  LOVE.  127 

had  left  off  her  night-cap,  and  had  that  day,  for  the 
first  time  since  her  illness,  arranged  lier  lovely  hair 
in  its  usual  mode.  She  looked  more  than  ordinarily 
interesting,  for  she  was  full  of  grateful  and  affectionate 
feeling,  and  looked  both  good  and  happy. 

The  door  opened,  and  Becky  announced  Dr.  Went- 
wcrth.  It  always  had  been  a  pleasure  to  see  him, 
but  at  this  moment  it  was,  Mary  knew  not  why, 
even  more  so  than  usual.  Agreeable,  however,  as 
had  been  his  coming,  he  did  not  stay  very  long ;  and 
Mrs.  Morland,  who  was  coming  up  stairs  with  a 
letter  in  her  hand,  met  him  as  he  went  out.  The 
letter  which  she  held  in  her  hand  was  one  of  great 
importance  to  Mary,  but  yet  it  was  not  of  that  of 
which  Mrs.  Morland  spoke  first. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  amiss  with  Dr.  Went- 
worthl"  asked  she;  "and  you,  Majy  ? — in  tears,  I 
declare." 

Mary  wept  still.  "  The  excellent,  noble,  generous 
man'"  exclaimed  she,  at  length,  "to  think  only  of 
his  loving  me — of  his  asking  me  to  become  his  wife!" 

Mrs.  Morland  looked  at  her  earnestly  without 
speaking. 

"  What  am  I  to  do,  Mrs.  Morland?"  asked  she; 
"  I  that  would  not  give  pain  to  any  human  being  if 
I  could  help  it — what  pain  and  distress  have  I  not 
given  to  him  ! " 

"And  have  you  really  refused  him!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Morland.  "  Really  and  truly  refused  Dr.  Went- 
worth!" 

'*  I  have  indeed  1"  said  Mary,  "  how  could  1  do 
otherwise?" 

Mrs.  Morland  again  fixed  her  eyes  on  Mary  and 
looked  troubled. 


128 


THE  FALSE  LOVE 


*'  But  for  one  person,"  said  Mary,  "  I  could  have 
loved  him — and  then  how  happy,  how  inexpressibly 
happy  and  fortunate  I  sliould  have  been ! — but  you 
know  I  co\iId  not." 

Mrs.  Morlaiid  felt  angry  :  perhaps  it  was  unrea* 
sonable,  but  still  she  certainly  felt  angry. 

"  Well  Mary,"  said  she,  "  you  have  done  a  most 
foolish  thing,  and  what,  if  you  really  have  done  it, 
which  I  can  hardly  bring  my  mind  to  conceive,  you 
will  repent  to  tlie  last  day  of  your  life  ! " 

"Oh  Mrs.  Morland!"  said  Mary,  "how  can  you  say 
so — and  how  can  you  make  me  thus  miserable  ?  My 
heart  aches  for  Dr.  Wentworth ;  I  honour  and  esteem 
him,  and  admire  his  generosity  beyond  words !" 

"  Admire  and  esteem  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Morland, 
in  a  tone  of  such  bitter  mockery  as  cut  her  to  the 
heart — "why,  Mary  Wheeler,  there  is  not  a  girl  in 
the  town,  hardly  in  the  country,  who  would  not  be 
ennobled  by  marrying  Dr.  Wentworth.  He  is  a 
gentleman,  and  not  only  that,  but  is  so  good  and  so 
rich — and  then  you  have  refused  him  just  for  a  paltry 
tea-dealer !" 

She  threw  the  letter  down  upon  the  table,  and 
walked  hastily  up  and  down  the  room,  never  sympa- 
thising with  the  poor  girl,  who  felt,  even  more  than 
she  did,  the  pain  of  having  given  pain  to  a  noble 
heart. 

"  Dearest  Mrs.  Morland,"  said  Mary  at  length, 
"  what  in  the  world  was  I  to  do  1  You  know  all 
about  Mark  as  well  as  I  do ;  you  think  highly  of 
him — you  said  you  did.  1  confess,  before  Heaven 
and  you,  to  loving  him  sincerely ;  how  then  could  1 
have  accepted  Dr.  Wentworth  ?  And  as  to  Mark  being 


AND  THE  TRUE   LOVE.  129 

only  a  tea-dealer,  why,  what  am  I  ?  Poor  as  a  bee:?ar ! 
and  it  is  generous  in  him  to  love  me  and  to  be  willing-, 
as  I  believe  he  is,  to  make  me  his  wife.  Oh  Mrs. 
Morland,  think,  only  dispassionately  about  it,  and 
would  you  not  really  have  despised  me,  as  I  am  sure 
I  should  have  despised  myself,  if  I  had  accepted  Dr. 
^Ventworth  merely  because  he  was  a  richer  man  and 
of  higher  station  ?  And,  good  and  noble  and  right- 
minded  as  Dr.  Wentworth  is,  J.  am  sure  he  would 
not  have  wished  me  to  do  otherwise,  nor  could  ho 
have  respected  me  if  I  had  ! " 

"  You  are  right !  you  are  right,  dear  Mary,"  said 
Mrs.  Morland,  throwing  her  arms  round  her  neck ; 
"  I  only  hope  and  trust  that  Mr.  Sopworth  may 
deserve  love  as  noble  and  disinterested  as  yours!" 

Mary  sighed  deeply,  for  amid  her  deep,  deep 
sympathy  with  her  rejected  lover,  all  at  once  the 
sense  came  over  her  soul  that  as  yet  the  preferred 
lover  had  not  proposed. 

"  I  wish,  however,"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  that  this 
had  not  happened,  for  Dr.  \\'entworth  is  one  in  ten 
thousand  ;  and  though  my  own  heart  tells  me  that 
you  have  done  right,  I  am  anything  but  satisfied. 
This  affair,  however,  has  put  something  out  of  my 
head — something  very  pleasant,  and  which  you  will 
like  to  hear." 

"  Vou  have  a  letter,  then,  fiom  Mr.  Morland  ?  * 
said  Mary,  as  she  took  it  up  again. 

"  No,"  returned  she  ;  "  but  do  you  know  this 
handwriting  ?  "  asked  she,  showing  her  the  direction 
Mary  did  not.  '*  Ah,  that  is  odd,"  said  she  ;  "  but 
you  must  know  that,  when  you  were  so  ill,  I  wrote 
to  the  clergyman  of  Morton,  to  inquire  if  that  good 


130 


THE    FALSE    LOVE 


grand-uncle,  and  aunt  Fielding,  of  whom  you  told 
roe  so  much,  were  still  living,  and  in  case  they  were, 
I  begged  him  to  give  them  my  letter.  In  my  letter 
I  told  them  all  about  you  ;  of  your  uncle's  failure, 
and  of  your  illness,  and  a  great  deal  more  than  I  choose 
to  tell  you  just  now,  because  it  was  all  praise  ; — 
and  I,  just  now,  am  not  so  very  well  pleased  with 
you,"  said  she,  smiling.  Mary  listened  breathlessly, 
and  she  continued.  "  I  thought  it  very  odd  that  I 
did  not  receive  an  answer  ;  but,  however,  this  is 
inclosed  in  one  from  the  clergyman,  who  tells  me 
that  this  village  is  properly  Morton-le-AV'old,  and 
that  my  letter  had  been  travelling  to  all  the  Mor- 
tons in  three  or  four  counties,  before  it  reached  its 
destination ;  however,  it  got  right  at  last,  and  here, 
then,  is  a  letter  from  your  dear  old  uncle  himself, 
which  I  will  read  to  you  : — 

«  Morton-le-Wold,  January  28,  183—. 
"  Dear  Madam, 

"Thank  you  for  yours.  I  and  my  wife  are  still 
living,  thank  God,  and  in  tolerable  health.  What 
you  write  of  the  dear  child  has  grieved  us  greatly. 
We  always  understood  Mr.  Joseph  Crawley  to  be, 
not  only  a  man  of  substance,  but  of  great  respect- 
ability. May  the  Almighty  bless  you  for  finding  a 
home  for  the  fatherless  and  motherless !  We  shall 
bo  greatly  pleased  to  have  the  dear  child  with  us ; 
we  remember  her  well,  and  all  her  little  affectionate 
ways.  She,  and  poor  Edward,  were  the  offspring  of 
upright  and  God-fearing  people  ;  and  while  we  have 
bread  to  eat,  they  shall  never  want. 

*'  "Wc  shall  hope  to  hear  from  you  again  by  return 


AND  THE    TRUE    LOVE.  18l 

of  post,  as,  from  what  you  write  of  her  illness,  w* 
are  full  of  anxiety  about  her.  I  will,  if  you  think 
it  advisable,  or  if  it  would  be  any  comfort  to  her, 
come  over  to  see  her,  for  I  am  hearty,  though  some- 
what in  years,  and  rather  rheumatic;  but  should 
not  fear  a  journey,  the  season  being  so  mild,  and 
especially  if  it  would  be  any  comfurt  to  her  who  is 
so  dear  to  us  both.. 

"  It  is,  indeed,  a  great  pleasure,  that  she  remembers 
us  with  so  much  affection.  Tell  her  net  to  be  cast 
down,  for  that  she  shall  have  a  home  with  us,  and 
should  have  had  that  long  ago,  had  we  not  thought 
her  better  provided  for  than  with  us.  She  will  be 
a  great  comf()rt  to  us  in  our  old  age  ;  and  my  wife, 
who  begs  me  to  send  her  love  to  her,  is  quite  impa- 
tient that  I  should  set  off  for  her.  But  before  I  do 
that,  it  is  best  that  we  hear  again  from  you. 

"  With  respectful  compliments  from  my  wife,  and 
our  most  sincere  thanks  for  the  kindness  you  have 
shown  to  one  who  is  so  dear  to  us,  which  truly 
verifies  the  words  of  the  Psalmist,  '  I  have  been 
young,  and  now  I  am  old,  yet  I  never  saw  the 
righteous  forsaken,  or  his  seed  bogging  bread,' 
f  "  Believe  me,  dear  Madam, 

**  Yours  very  faithfully,  and  gratefully, 

"  Bernard   Fieldiwo." 
"ToMr8.  Georee  Morland, 
"in  W^^ ." 

It  is  impossible  to  say  what  happiness  this  letter 
tofiised  into  Mary's  heart.  The  remembrance  of 
those  dear  old  relatives  had  lived  in  her  mind  as  a 
beautiful  part  of  that  beautiful  dream  of  childhood. 


132  THE    FALSE   LOVE 

which,  in  the  hard  realities  of  her  after  experience 
seemed  to  have  passed  away  for  ever  ;  but  here 
again  were  they  all  unexpectedly  presented  before 
her.  It  seemed  as  if  the  clouds  of  life  were  passing 
away,  and  the  true  and  the  kind  were  opening  their 
arms  to  receive  her. 

""'  What  a  kind,  thoughtful,  and  active  friend  have 
you  not  been  for  me,"  said  Mary,  addressing  Mi-s. 
Morland,  ''  and  for  how  much,  indeed,  have  I  not 
to  thank  God !  "  She  could  say  no  more,  but  clasp- 
ing her  hands  before  her  face,  she  poured  forth  silent 
thanksgiving  to  her  Father  in  heaven. 

She  was  too  much  excited  by  all  the  events  of  the 
day,  to  be  able  to  write  to  the  old  people.  Mrs. 
Morland,  therefore,  undertook  to  make  the  imme- 
diate reply. 

She  could  not  do  other  than  write  cheerfully,  for 
she  had  much  good  news  to  communicate.  Mary 
•was  better  ;  was  now  out  of  all  danger,  and  was  made 
perfectly  happy  by  this  prospect  of  reunion  with 
them.  She  begged  to  think  of  them  as  beloved 
parents,  to  whom  she  might  show  a  daughter's  duty 
and  affection,  and  she  looked  forward  impatiently  to 
the  day  when  she  might  be  received  under  their 
roof.  So  much  was  written  as  dictated  by  Mary 
herself;  and  then,  Mrs.  Morland  added,  that  until 
the  weather  was  quite  warm  and  settled,  and  until 
Mary's  health  was  quite  established,  she  must 
remain  where  she  was.  Mrs.  Morland  said,  that 
she  was  extremely  attached  to  her,  and  would  not 
readily  have  consented  to  part  with  her,  did  she  not 
feel  that  relations  so  excellent  as  these,  and  to 
whom  Mary  herself  was  so  warmly  attached,  had  a 


AWD    THE    TRUE    LOVE.  133 

prior  claim  to  her.  She  would  be,  she  said,  a  bless- 
ing and  a  happiness  to  them  ;  and  then,  she  wrote 
about  all  her  virtues,  and  her  good  qualities,  which, 
seeing  we  know  them  all  so  well,  need  not  be 
repeated. 

Poor  Mary  had  been  so  much  excited  that  day, 
as  not  to  be  able  to  sit  upon  the  morrow  She  suf- 
fered from  intolerable  headache ;  and,  spite  of  the 
happiness  which  her  uncle  Fielding's  letter  had 
occasioned,  there  was  a  something  unsatisfactory  in 
her  own  feelings.  It  was  now  a  fortnight  since  that 
afternoon  when  Mark  Sopworthhad  sat  with  her;  and 
since  that  day,  only  occasional  inquiries  after  her 
health,  had  shown  that  he  kept  her  in  remembrance. 

Mrs.  Morland  had  seen  him  many  times  since 
then,  but  that  only  on  business ;  it  is  true  that  he 
had  always  spoken  of  Mary  with  an  appearance  of 
the  same  interest  as  formerly,  and  that  had  satisfied 
her.  She  was,  however,  very  closely  occupied  at 
this  time  by  her  own  business,  which,  as  we  liave 
before  said,  began  to  promise  the  most  complete  suc- 
cess. Sometimes  for  whole  days  she  was  occupied 
in  her  laboratory,  and  then  again  in  seeing  that 
orders  were  made  up  and  sent  off.  Old  Matthew 
was  fully  employed  in  the  heavier  work,  as  in 
Mr.  Nixon's  days,  and  a  young  man,  whom  her 
uncle  had  strongly  recommended,  and  sent  to  her, 
served  her  as  warehouseman.  She  had,  indeed, 
enough  to  do  to  attend  to  her  own  affairs  ;  and,  had 
shebeen  a  selfish  person,  she  would  have  said  so  ;  but 
as  it  was,  she  found  time  not  only  to  think  about  Mary, 
but  to  be  a  little  uneasy  also  on  her  account. 

It  was  odd,  she  thought,  that,  if  Mark  Sopworth 


134  THE    FALSE   LOVE 

really  was  sincere  in  all  he  said,  and  really  meant  all 
his  behaviour  implied,  that  he  never  came  to  the  house 
excepting  on  business;  and  that  he  always  declined 
her  invitations  to  stay,  though  by  staying  he  might 
have  the  opportunity  of  seeing  and  talking  with  the 
girl  he  professed  to  love.  There  was  something  un- 
satisfactory in  it,  which  she  attributed  to  the  influence 
of  his  sister,  who  had  now,  for  a  long  time,  behaved 
towards  Mary  with  great  coldness.  She  gave  him 
the  benefit  of  everything  in  his  favour ;  he  had  been 
so  occupied  about  the  lease,  but  now  that  that  was 
completed,  she  felt  assured  that  he  would  soon  set 
all  things  right. 

Two  or  three  days  more  went  on,  but  no  Mark 
Sopworth  made  his  appearance,  nor  was  he  now  to 
be  seen  when  she  looked  out  of  her  front  door, 
standing,  as  usual,  at  the  desk  in  his  backshop 
writing,  or  with  the  pen  behind  his  ear. 

"  I  '11  certainly  contrive  to  speak  with  him," 
thought  she,  one  day.  "  I  '11  call  for  a  pound  of  tea, 
or  I  '11  make  up  some  errand  about  the  lease ;  but  I 
really  must  have  some  opportunity  of  talking  with 
him  ! " 

AVhilst  she  was  thinking  thus,  Becky,  who  was 
laying  the  cloth  for  dinner,  began  to  tell  what  was 
the  on  dit  of  the  Barkers'  Sarah,  and  the  Sopworths* 
Ann.  Mr.  Mark  Sopworth  was  going  to  be  married 
at  Midsummer ;  he  had  bought  the  whole  premises, 
and  workmen  were  even  now  beginning  to  get  the 
place  in  order.  He  was  going  to  live  in  old  Craw- 
ley's house. 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  Mrs.  Morland ;  "  and  to  whom  ia 
he  going  to  be  married,  Becky  ?  " 


AND    THE    TRUE    LOVE.  135 

•*  To  Miss  Barbara  Pocklington,"  returned  she. 

"Indeed  !"  again  said  Mrs.  Morland. 

"  So  they  say,"  continued  Becky,  "  and  I  believe 
BO  myself.  They  say  it  is  all  a  settled  thing ;  and 
only  last  night  he  came  home  from  somewhere,  where 
he  had  been  with  her  to  a  ball.  It''s  a  sin  and 
a  shame,"  said  Becky,  looking  quite  angry,  "  after 
all  the  notice  he  took  of  Miss  Wheeler,  to  serve  her 
80 ;  and  if  I  were  yo\i  and  her,  1  'd  never  let  him 
darken  my  doors  again  as  long  as  I  lived  !  But  she 's 
a  deal  too  good  for  him — that  she  is,"  said  poor 
Becky,  in  a  self-consoling  tone — "  a  world  too  good 
for  him  ;  and  so  I  said  to  Ann,  '•  He  's  no  such  great 
shakes,'  says  I,  '  after  all,  and  there 's  plenty,  better 
than  him,  as  will  jump  at  her ! '  " 

"  I  think  so  too,  Becky,"  said  Mrs,  Morland ; 
"  but  I  advise  you,  nevertheless,  not  to  talk  about  it 
with  the  servants — it  is  a  great  deal  better  not !  " 

"No,  I  've  had  my  say,"  said  Becky,  "and  I  shall 
say  no  more  ;  only  this  I  will  stick  to,  that,  if  ever  a 
young  lady  had  a  right  to  think  a  man  loved  her, 
why,  it  was  Miss  Wheeler.  He  could  not  let  her  go 
out  of  the  house,  but  he  must  follow  her;  and  then, 
as  long  as  old  Crawley  was  thought  to  be  rich,  all  his 
folks  was  making  so  much  of  her.  It 's  been  so  ever 
since  they  came  to  the  shop ;  nothing  was  too  good 
for  her  then.  I  hate  to  see  such  money- worsliip  ! — 
But  let  him  take  his  Miss  Barbara!  he'll  have 
enough  of  his  bargain  before  he 's  been  a  married 
man  twelve  months  !  But,  bless  me,  my  mutton  will 
be  burnt  to  a  coal !  "  said  Becky,  cutting  short  her 
tirade,  and  hurrying  out  into  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Morland  heard  first  from  one,  and  then  from 


136  THE    FALSE    LOVE 

another,  the  same  thhig  as  Becky  had  told  her: 
Mark  Sopworth  was  to  be  married  at  Midsummer, 
and  was  getting  ready  his  house  to  receive  his  wife. 
She  had  not  seen  him  for  a-  long  time,  that  is  for 
several  days,  and  she  suspected,  therefore,  that  he 
avoided  seeing  her.  She  went  out,  however,  one 
afternoon,  and  met  him  point-blank  in  turning  a 
corner,  not  far  from  his  house. 

"  Good  afternoon  !  Mr.  Mark,"  said  she,  stopping 
him  ;  "  we  have  seen  nothing  of  you  of  late.     You 
are  so  busy  preparing  your  new  house,  1  hear."  said' 
she,  as  he  made  no  answer,  and  she  was  determined 
he  should  not  escape. 

He  turned  alternately  j)ale,  and  then  red :  stam- 
mered something,  and  looked  uneasy. 

"  The  good  people  of  W — ,"  continued  she  gaily, 
"  are  infinitely  obliged  to  you  for  giving  them  some- 
thing to  talk  of." 

"  To  talk  of!"  repeated  he  ;  "  what  do  they  talk  of?" 

*' Nay,  30U  must  not  come  to  me  for  the  news," 
said  Mrs.  Morland,  smiling ;  "  you  know  what  every- 
body is  saying ! " 

"  No,  upon  my  word  !  No,  I  protest!  What  do  you 
mean  ?  "  stammered  he,  looking  an  object  of  almost 
pitiable  confusion.  "But  —  but  —  how  is  Miss 
Wheeler  ? "  asked  he,  endeavouring,  but  in  vain,  to 
speak  in  an  assured  tone  of  voice. 

"  Very  much  better — nay,  indeed  quite  well  !•" 
returned  Mrs.  Morland,  not  quite  adhering  to  the 
strict  truth,  but  determined  to  convince  him,  if  pos- 
sible, that  his  faithlessness  affected  her  but  very  little. 

He  made  no  reply,  but  abruptly  left  her,  blessing 
his  stars  that  he  had  got  away. 


AND    THE    TRUE    LOVE.  137 

'*  He  knows  himself  to  be  a  villain  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Moiland,  as  she  walked  onward;  ''a  raean,  pitiful 
sneak  as  he  is — I  despise  him  from  my  very  soul !  " 

As  she  entered  her  own  door  again,  she*  saw  him 
sitting  as  usual  at  his  desk  in  his  back  shop,  with  his 
chin  resting  on  both  his  hands.  *'The  worst  I  wish 
for  him,"  thought  she,  "  is,  that  he  may  just  have 
sense  enough  left  to  feel  what  a  despicable  being 
he  is!" 

Whatever  his  feelings  might  be,  the  very  next 
time  Mrs.  Morland  went  out  of  her  door,  she  saw 
that  a  green  silk  curtain  was  put  half  way  up  the 
back  shop  window,  and  thus  the  desk  and  its  occu- 
pant was  concealed  from  view.  "It's  an  excellent 
thing  ! "  said  she  to  herself,  "  for  I  hate  to  see  him  , 
and  I  would  not  for  the  world  that  poor  Mary,  just 
for  the  short  time  she  has  to  stay  here,  should  be 
annoyed  by  seeing  him  !  " 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  said  Sopworth  to  himself  that 
afternoon,  as  he  sat  resting  his  chin  on  his  hands — 
"  Thank  Heaven  that  Mary  Wheeler  has  nobody  to 
take  up  her  quarrel !  Both  her  cue  and  Mrs.  Mor- 
land's,  will  be  to  say  as  little  about  it  as  possible. 
Nobody  ever  can  say  that  I  made  her  a  direct  offer  ! 
Like  her,  I  certainly  did ;  and .  I  would  be  glad 
enough  to  change  Barbara  for  her  ;  but  that  can't  be. 
Barbara 's  a  handsome  girl ;  and,  as  to  Mary,  it 's  only 
just  now  that  I  think  so  much  about  it.  M'hen  I 
have  seen  her  a  time  or  two  it  will  all  be  nothing  : 
but  as  for  that,  at  present  I  'd  rather  go  ten  miles 
round  than  meet  even  Mrs.  Morland  !" 

The  fear  of  seeing  either  Mrs.  Morland  or  Mary, 
made  him  have  the  green  blind  put  up ;   and  th« 
y2 


i38  THE    FALSE   LOVE 

unpleasant  feeling  of  having  met  Mrs.  Morland  so 
unhinged  him,  that  he  set  off  the  day  following  to 
Sommerton,  and  on  his  way  there  resolved  to 
embrace  the  offer  which  young  Pocklington  had 
made  him,  to  go  out  for  a  couple  of  days  snipe- 
shooting.  "  I  "11  come  back  on  Wednesday  morning," 
said  he,  "  for  market,  and  by  that  time  I  shall  haTe 
got  up  my  spirits  again." 

Not  a  word  was  said  by  Mrs.  Morland  to  Mary  of 
what  Becky  had  told  her,  and  of  what  all  the  world 
said ;  nor  yet  did  she  tell  her  of  her  meethig  with 
Mark  Sopwortli.  Poor  Mary  suffered  dreadfully 
from  head-ache,  and,  poorly  as  she  continued,  Dr. 
Wentworth  never  came  to  see  her.  It  is  impossible 
to  say  how  much  this  circumstance  troubled  her. 
She  feared  that  she  had  lost  his  esteem  and  friendship 
for  ever,  and  she  thought  of  him  continually. 

"  I  should  be  so  glad  to  hear  his  carriage  stop  as  it 
used  to  do  !  "  thought  she  many  a  time  ;  "  but  it  is 
not  likely  he  will  ever  come  to  see  me  again.  I 
know  I  have  offended  him ;  and  yet,  if  he  could  only 
understand  my  feelings — could  know  how  I  admire 
and  esteem  him — he  would  not  blame  me  1" 

Fear  lest  she  had  lost  his  friendship  for  ever, 
almost  equally  shared  her  mind  with  the  one  thought 
which  otherwise  would  have  occupied  it  altogether, — 
and  that  was,  that  Mark  Sopworth  never  came  near 
her,  never  sent  even  to  inquire  after  her,  that  she 
heard  of. 

No  wonder  was  it  that  her  head  became  so 
intolerably  bad.  One  Sunday  afternoon  she  lay 
with  vinegar  cloths  on  her  forehead,  to  allay  the 
throbbing  pain  there.    It  was  at  the  end  of  February, 


AND    THE   TRUE   LOVE,  139 

wet  and  cheerless,  and  the  twilight  seemed  to  come 
on  as  early  as  on  the  shortest  day.  Mrs.  Morland 
sat  reading  in  a  volume  of  sermons  by  the  fire,  and 
Mary  lay  on  her  bed,  the  silerlt  tears,  which  she  did 
not  wipe  away,  trickling  down  to  the  pillow.  Mrs. 
Morland  was  called  out  of  the  room,  and  in  about  a 
fluarler  of  an  hour  returned. 

"  Dr.  Wentworth  has  been  to  inquire  after  you, 
dear,"  said  she. 

"  Thank  God ! "  returned  Mary,  taking  np  her 
handkerchief  and  wiping  away  the  tears,  which  now 
flowed  with  hysterical  violence  ;  "  I  feared  he  would 
never  come  near  me  again  ! " 

"  He  has  sent  every  day  to  inquire  after  you," 
returned  Mrs.  Morland,  without  noticing  Mary's 
emotion ;  '•  I  have  not  seen  him,  however,  since  that 
day  till  now,  and  really,  poor  fellow,  he  looks  so  ill !" 

Mary  covered  her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  and 
sobbed  bitterly. 

•'For  Heaven's  sake  be  calm,  Mary!"  said  Mrs. 
Morland  ;  "  what  is  to  become  of  your  poor  head  if 
you  cry  thus  ?  He  desires  you  may  be  kept  calm, 
and  your  forehead  cool,"  said  she,  dipping  a  fresh 
cloth  in  the  vinegar.  '*  Bless  me,  how  burning  hot 
your  forehead  is,"  added  she,  taking  the  other  away. 

"  And  it  throbs  dreadfully,"  said  Mary.  "  Thank 
you  ;  how  deliciously  cool  it  now  is  ! "  added  she, 
when  the  fresh  linen  was  laid  on.  "  But  oh,  Mrs. 
Morland,"  said  she,  seizing  her  hand,  ''  I  do  so  wish 
my  mind  could  be  made  easy  !  I  do  wish  I  could 
honestly  and  truly  know  what  you  think — " 

She  paused,  and  Mrs.  Morland,  who  understood 
her  meaning  perfectly,  replied,  "  Not  to-day,  dear 
Mary,  will  I  talk  of  anything  that  can  agitate  you  ; 


1- 

>Vfe,    ET( 


140  THE    FALSE    LO 

keep  quiet — do  not  dwell  on  any  painful  or  disquiet- 
ing thought,  and  if  there  be  one  thing  in  this  world 
that  is  calnily  and  soothingly  pleasant  to  think  of, 
think  of  it,  or  I  will  lalk  to  you  of  it,  calmly  and 
softly,  just  as  I  think  best ;  but  not  one  word  to-day 
either  about  Dr.  Wentworth  or  Mr.  Sop  worth." 

'•  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal,"  said  M^ry, 
"of  my  good  uncle  and  aunt:  Fielding.  I  shall  be' 
so  glad  to  see  them  ;  and  I  think — I  have  thought  so 
for  several  days — that  if  you  would  not  think  it 
ungrateful,  I  should  liW to Jleave  W —  altogether, 
and  go  to  Morton."        .r  ^i,r' 

Mrs.  Morland  knew  wjfat  the  true  spring  of  these 
thoughts  was,  &nd,  stooping  down  and  kissing  her, 
she  replied,  "  Yes,  love,  and  so  I  think.  In  Spring 
the  country  is  so^pleasant,  and  Morton,  you  say,  is 
so  pretty  |;.«tid  j|inen,  those  good  old  people  are  so 
kind,  and  love  ^you  so  much  !  You  shall  go,  and 
then,  when  yjOfi  are  better,  and  quite  strong,  perhaps 
next  ChristcBas,  you  shall  come  here  again  on  a  visit 
to  me."      }^^ 

rMary  pressed  her  hand,  but  made  no  reply. 

If  *' Yqu  shall  write  me  long  letters  from  Morton," 
continued  Mrs.  Morland — "long  letters,  which  to  me, 
living  in  the  close-built  town,  stoving  all  day  down 
in  my  laboratory,  will  come  breathing  of  the  country 
like  fresh  fruits  or  flowers.  You  shall  study  music 
with  the  good  old  uncle,  and  learn  all  kind  of  house- 
hold accomplishments  from  the  dear  old  aunt !  Yes, 
dear  girl — jesting  apart — it  will  be  a  holy  and  a  heal- 
ing life  for  you.  We  will  get  all  your  clothes  in  order,, 
and  when  the  warmer  weather  comes  we  will  send 
for  the  good  old  uncle  to  fetch  you." 


141 


CHAPTER  X. 

PARTING    AND    MEETINO. 

Not  a  word  ever  passed  between  Mrs.  Morland  and 
Mary,  respecting  Mark  Sopworth  and  his  false  love. 
When  she  left  her  chamber  for  the  first  time,  ard 
went  into  the  dining-room,  she  saw,  through  the 
staircase  window,  the  workmen  busily  employed  on 
the  premises  which  her  uncle  had  occupied,  and  Mark 
Sopworth,  without  his  hat,  standing  there.  He  was 
pointing  out  somethitig  about  the  upper  story  to  young 
Pockliugton,  who  was  with  him  ;  but  not  a  word  did 
Mary  say,  although  a  deep  sigh  escaped  her,  and 
Mrs.  Morland  could  not  help  remarking  the  deathly 
paleness  which  overspread  her  countenance,  and  robbed 
every  tinge  of  colour  from  her  lips. 

She  had  come  to  know,  but  Mrs.  Morland  never 
discovered  how,  that  he  was  about  to  be  married  to 
Barbara  Pocklington ;  she  mentioned  it  once,  but 
never  again,  and  Mrs.  Morland  us*ed  all  the  means 
in  her  power  to  divert  her  thoughts  and  enliven  her. 

March  came  and  passed,  and  then  came  April 
with  flowers  and  budding  leaves  ;  but  Mary  was  still 
an  invalid.  Her  sickness,  however,  was  more  of  the 
mind  than  the  body,  and  both  she  and  her  friend 
unanimously  agreed  that  the  time  was  now  come 
when  she  must  go  to  Morton.  She  had  not  yet 
been  out  of  the  house  ;  she  had  a  morbid  dread  of 
it ;  and  Mrs.  Morland,  though  she  wished  it,  and 


142  PARTING    AND    MEETING. 

thought  it  would  be  much  better  if  she  had — nay, 
even  that  she  had  accustomed  herself  to  see  Sop- 
worth,  had  not  the  heart  to  urge  it. 

All  the  preparations  necessary  for  her  departure 
were  made  ;  the  great  leathern  trunk  lent  to  her  by 
her  friend,  stood  in  her  chamber  ready  filled,  and 
the  carpet-bag,  lent  also,  out  of  Mr.  Morland's  inex- 
haustible store  of  such  things,  lay  upon  it.  Old  Mr. 
Fielding  was  to  come  the  next  day ;  he  was  to 
remain  with  them  one  day,  and  on  the  following, 
Mary  was  to  commence  her  journey. 

If  the  name  of  Sopworth  was  carefully  avoided  by 
them,  no  less  so  was  that  of  Dr.  Wentworth.  Mary 
had  never  seen  him  since  the  day  when  he  had 
declared  to  her  his  passion.  A  great  change  since 
then  had  taken  place  in  her  life's  prospects.  Mrs. 
Morland  wished,  above  all  things,  that  she  could 
again  bring  about  the  affair  between  them ;  but  in 
the  then  sensitive  state  of  Mary's  feelings,  she  would 
not  even  speak  of  him,  and,  as  regarded  himself,  if 
he  even  were  desirous  of  renewing  his  suit,  which  his 
now  total  absence  hardly,  perhaps,  seemed  to  pro- 
mise, he  was  not  exactly  the  person  that  anybody 
could  suggest  anything  to,  especially  a  delicate 
affair  like  this.  Mrs.  Morland,  therefore,  thought 
that  everything  must  be  left  to  take  its  own  course; 
but,  sai<l  she  to  herself  many  a  time,  "  If  there  be 
one  thing  more  than  another  that  makes  me  detest 
Sopworth,  it  is,  that  he  has  made  Mary  lose  a  hus- 
band like  Dr.  Wentworth." 

Both  Mrs.  Morland  and  Mary  that  evening  were 
very  low-spirited ;  and,  had  it  not  been  that  a  foreign 
letter  came  in  quite  unexpectedly,  directed  to  Mrs. 


PARTING    AND    MEETINO.  143 

Morland  for  Mary,  they  certainly  would  both  liave 
wept  to  keep  each  other  company.  The  letter  waa 
from  Ned,  and  was  written  from  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  and  was  such  a  letter  as  none  but  a  heart  like 
his  could  dictate  —  affectionate,  full  of  sound  good 
sense,  and  taking,  at  the  same  time,  the  most  cheer- 
ful views  of  life.  He  said  that  this  would  be  hia 
last  voyage  as  ship's  apprentice  ;  and,  unlike  hia 
former  voyages,  this  would  enable  him  to  return  to 
England  by  the  end  of  the  year.  In  the  meantime 
he  said — for  he  had  been  thinking  much  and  seriously 
on  his  sister's  prospects — he  wished  her  to  write  to 
their  relations  the  Fieldings,  and  if  they  still  lived, 
to  solicit  a  home  with  them,  where  he  would  visit  her 
on  his  return.  But  if  they  lived  not,  he  besought 
her  to  ask  the  same  from  Mrs.  Morland  :  and,  as  to 
money,  he  said  he  should  soon  be  in  the  receipt  of 
sufficient  to  pay  whatever  had  been  incurred  for  her  . 
and,  please  God  he  again  reached  England,  they 
would  have  many  a  merry  hour  together,  and  laugh 
at  all  old  troubles- 
Had  the  letter  been  the  voice  of  an  angel  from 
heaven,  it  could  not  have  produced  a  more  happy 
eff'ect  than  it  did.  For  the  first  time  for  these  many 
months,  Mary  felt  perfectly  cheerful.  In  comparison 
with  Sopworth,  how  true-hearted  and  straightforward 
did  Ned  seem,  while,  in  point  of  character  and  good- 
ness, he  lost  nothing  when  compared  with  the  excel- 
lent Dr.  Wentworth. 

The  evening  really  was  cheerful;  Mrs.  Morland 
laughed  and  told  amusing  anecdotes ;  Mary  smiled, 
and  felt  as  if,  some  time  or  other,  she  might  be 
perhaps  again  light-hearted. 


144  *         PARTING    AND    MEETING. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  afternoon,  she  heard 
Mrs.  Morland  bring  some  one  into  the  passage- 
somebody  was  taking  off  a  great-coat — it  might  be 
her  uifcle  ;  she  rushed  to  the  door  the  very  moment 
that  it  was  opened,  and  the  bending  figure  of  an  old, 
but  not  feeble  man,  with  strongly  marked,  but  most 
singularly  mild  and  intelligent  countenance,  and 
snowy  white  hair  which  fell  upon  his  shoulders, 
met  her  eye.  It  was  her  uncle,  and  the  next 
moment  she  was  clasped  in  his  arms.  He  did  not 
speak  for  some  time,  but  gazed  tenderly  into  her 
face.  "  She  is  so  like  her  mother !"  said  he  at  length, 
wiping  a  tear  away,  and  turning  to  Mrs.  Morland; 
"  so  very  like  her  poor  dear  mother  ! "  He  then  put 
her  back  at  arm's  length,  and  surveyed  her  from 
liead  to  foot.  "  She  was  but  a  little  child,"  said  he, 
"  when  she  parted  from  us  :  she  is  now  grown  tall, 
poor  thing !  and  very  like  her  mother  I"  He  kissed 
her  again  and  again,  and  seemed  greatly  pleased  with 
her. 

It  was  indeed  a  happy  meeting,  and  the  kindly 
cheerful  spirit  of  the  dear  old  man  operated  most 
beneficially  on  her  mind,  even  in  the  course  of  a  few 
hours. 

Mr.  Fielding  had  most  correct  notions  with  regard 
to  money  matters.  He  had  come  prepared  to  dis- 
charge all  debts  which  had  been  incurred  on  account 
of  his  niece — more  especially  as  regarded  medical 
attendance.  As  yet,  Dr.  Wentworth  had  had  no 
fee.  He  bad  not  received  it  in  the  first  instance,  and 
after  circumstances  had  made  Mrs.  Morland  feel 
some  delicacy,  at  least  while  Mary  remained  with 
her,  in  renewing  the  subject  with  him.     But  Mr. 


PARTING    AND   MEETING.  145 

Fielding,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of  all  this ;  and, 
after  Mrs.  Morland  had  refused  to  receive  one  single 
penny  for  the  expense  she  herself  had  incurred,  he 
set  out  to  discliarge  the  just  debt  to  the  good  physi- 
cian, and  at  the  same  time  to  express  his  tlianks  to 
him,  for  botli  Mary  and  Mrs.  Morland  had  spoken  of 
his  extreme  kindness. 

Poor  Mary  !  how  her  heart  beat  as  he  set  out,  soon 
after  nine,  that  he  might  be  sure  of  finding  him  at 
home,  before  he  went  round  to  his  patients;  and  hovr 
impatient  was  she,  too,  for  his  return,  and  yet  at  the 
same  time  afraid  of  his  returning  too  soon,  for  then 
she  should  fear  he  had  not  seen  him  ;  and  someway 
she  did  not  know  how  she  felt.  She  would  have 
liked,  of  all  things,  to  have  seen  him  once  again 
before  she  left,  to  have  known  at  least  that  they  two 
parted  friends. 

Her  uncle  at  last  came  back  :  there  was  an  expres- 
sion of  pleasure  in  his  countenance,  as  he  entered  the 
room,  which  indicated  that  his  interview  had  given 
him  satisfaction.  He  was,  like  everybody  else, 
charmed  with  Dr.  Wentworth,  for  he  was  one  who, 
though  he  was  old,  could  understand  and  appre- 
ciate fully  a  noble  and  uncommon  character,  and 
such  h&  felt  Dr.  Wentworth  to  be.  Every  word 
which  he  spoke  gave  both  pleasure  and  pain  to  poor 
Mary. 

Dr  Wentworth,  he  said,  had  refused  a  fee,  and 
that  so  peremptorily,  that  he  could  not  think  of 
urging  it.  He  had  inquired  most  particularly  after 
his  niece  :  had  warmly  approved  of  her  removal  into 
the  country ;   he  said  that  she  reouired  change  of 

0 


146  PARTING   AND    MEETING. 

scene  and  perfect  repose  of  mind.  He  had  asked, 
too,  of  their  intended  mode  of  travelhng ;  and,  as 
there  was  no  direct  coach  from  W — ,  and  they  must 
take  a  hired  conveyance  the  two  first  stages,  and 
it  was  altogether  a  long  fatiguing  day's  journey, 
he  had  proposed  to  send  his  own  close  carriage  with 
them  till  they  took  the  coach,  which  he  said  would 
be  better  for  an  invalid  than  any  hired  carriage. 
Mr.  Fielding  was  delighted  with  the  benevolence  of 
the  offer,  and  could  talk  of  nothing  else  all  the 
morning  but  the  extreme  kindness  and  consideration 
of  tliat  good  physician.  He  thought  his  niece  parti- 
cularly fortunate  in  such  a  medical  attendant ;  ha 
did  not  wonder  at  her  getting  better,  particularly 
when  she  had  a  nurse  like  Mrs.  Morland. 

Mr.  Fielding  and  Mrs.  Morland  talked  of  old 
Crawde}^  and  of  the  house  in  which  he  lived ;  and 
when  the  old  gentleman  set  out  in  the  afternoon  to 
look  about  him,  he  walked  down  the  court  to  take  a 
survey  of  the  house  in  which  his  poor  niece  had 
experienced  so  much  unhappiness.  Mr.  IMark  Sop- 
worth  was  with  his  workpeople,  and  the  old  gentle- 
man began  to  talk  with  him.  He  told  who  he  was, 
and  that  he  was  come  to  fetch  his  great-niec^  away ; 
she  was  a  very  good  girl,  he  said,  and  he  thanked 
God  that  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  provide  for  her. 
Sopworth  moved  first  here,  and  then  there ;  felt 
anything  but  at  his  ease,  and  wished  the  old  gentle- 
man would  go.  He  would  almost  have  told  him  to 
remove  himself,  for  nothing  made  him  so  uncomfort- 
able  as  to  hear  Mary  AVheeler  talked  of ;  and  as  this 
was  her  uncle,  he  did  not  know  how  much  of  hi3 


PARTING    ANJ)    MEETING  14? 

miserable  weakness — not  to  call  it  by  a  worse  namo 
— had  been  revealed  to  him.  Poor  old  gentleman, 
nothing,  however,  did  he  know  to  Mark  Sopworth'a 
disadvantage,  nor  indeed  did  he  know  who  Mark 
Sopworth  was ;  but  thinking  that  this  person,  let 
him  be  whoever  he  would,  was  either  out  of  humour, 
or  naturally  uncivil,  he  turned  himself  about,  and 
walked  slowly  up  the  court  again. 

"  ^V'hy,  is  not  that  old  fellow  from  Morton-le-  wold, 
in  Devonshire  V  asked  a  commercial  traveller  who 
dealt  in  spices,  and  who,  not  finding  Sopworth  in  hi3 
shop,  had  followed  him  here.  '*  It  is,  as  sure  as  I'm 
alive  !  Why,  he  is  as  rich  as  a  Jew  ;  I  heard  so  at 
Exeter  tliis  week.  He  lives  at  Morton  like  a  miser, 
and  does  not  spend  fifty  pounds  a  year :  but  he's 
laying  up  money  by  thousands  ! " 

Not  one  word  of  all  this  was  true,  excepting  that 
he  lived  at  Morton,  and  that  the  commercial  travell-er 
had  seen  him  in  Exeter,  where  he  had  been  the  week 
before  ;  but  the  traveller  was  a  wit,  and  his  wit 
many  a  time  showed  itself  by  rhodomontading  storiea 
which  he  mad6  up  on  the  occasion.  "  I  hope  you 
have  not  offended  the  old  fellow,"  said'he,  '*  for  they 
say  lie  is  looking  out  for  an  heir  ;  I  laid  myself  out 
to  please  him  la<t  week,  but,  unfortunately,  I  dropj>ed 
the  ashes  of  my  cigar  into  his  negus,  and  the  ashes  ol 
a  cigar  are  his  aversion,  so  I  lost  my  chance  ! " 

Had  there  been  the  most  bitter  malice  in  the  mind 
of  the  commercial  traveller  against  Mr.  Mark  Sop- 
worth, he  could  not  have  tortured  him  worse  than 
he  did  by  all  this.  "  Perhaps,  then,"  thought  he  to 
himself,  "  Mary  ^V'heeler  after  all  may  be  a  groat 


(48  THE   OLD   FRIENDS 

heiress — may  be  richer  a  hundred  times  than  Barbara 
Pocklington  !" 

In  the  early  morning,  before  the  shops  were  yet 
open — except  to  the  youngest  apprentices,  who  were 
cleaning  outsides  of  windows  and  such  things — a 
private  close  carriage  conveyed  away  from  the  entry- 
end  Mary  Wheeler  and  her  uncle.  Ann,  the  Sop- 
worths'  servant,  told  this  at  breakfast.  "  It  was  a 
very  handsome  carriage,"  she  said,  "  every  bit  as 
handsome  as  Dr.  AVentworth's." 

"  It  was  Dr.  '  Wentworth's,"  said  the  youngest 
apprentice. 

"Yes,  that  it  was,  and  Dr.  Wentworth's  horses 
too,"  said  the  youngest  apprentice  but  one. 

Sopworth  said  nothing  at  all,  but  felt  as  if  the  dry 
toast  he  was  eating,  spite  of  all  the  butter  which  he 
had  laid  thickly  upon  it,  would  stick  in  his  throat, 
for  he  made  no  doubt  whatever  but  that  it  w^as  in 
the  private  carriage  of  the  rich  old  uncle,  and  not 
that  of  Dr.  Wentworth,  which  she  had  been  con- 
veyed away. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   OLD    TRIENDS    AND    THE    OLD    HOME. 

Mary  wrote  to  her  dear  friend  Mrs.  Morland;  and 
we  think  we  cannot  oblige  our  readers  more  than  by 
giving  a  long  extract  from  a  letter,  dated  in  the  early 
part  of  May. 

"  By  my  last,"  she  wrote,  "  you  would  know  how 
well  this  place  and  this  quiet  country  life  agree  with 


AND    THE    OLD    H031E.  149 

me.  The  weather  has  completely  changed  within 
the  last  fortniglit,  and  all  is  like  Paradise  around 
me.  It  is  the  Morton  of  my  childhood  ;  and.  thank 
Heaven,  the  peace  of  mind,  if  not  the  joyous-hearted- 
ness  of  childhood,  seems  to  have  returnea. 

"  But  you  ask  me  of  my  dear  uncle  and  aunt 
How  could  I  write  so  hastily,  or  be  so  completely 
self-absorbed  as  to  say  so  little  of  them  in  my  last  ? 
I  have  found  them  as  simple,  and  kind,  and  good,  as 
my  memory  had  chronicled  them.  In  one  or  two 
little  particulars,  however,  their  .style  of  living  is 
changed, — for  instance,  they  keep  a  woman-servant 
now ;  and  the  grand  piano,  which  is  a  far  finer  and 
nobler  instrument  than  ever  my  childhood  imagined 
it,  stands  now  in  the  parlour,  which  has  become  their 
daily  sitting-room,  instead  of  the  kitchen,  as  formerly. 
The  furniture,  however,  is  the  most  simple  that  can 
be  imagined ;  and  it  really  seems  most  singularly 
strange,  not  to  say  startling,  to  see  a  magnificent 
instrument  like  this  standing  in  so  humble  an  apart- 
ment. *  The  only  thing,'  says  my  uncle  many  a 
time,  '  for  which  I  covet  a  large  house,  or  at  least 
one  large  and  noble  room,  is  to  hold  my  piano,  and 
to  do  justice  to  its  power.'  Poor  dear  old  man,  he 
sometimes  talks  of  sinking  some  part  of  his  income 
in  order  to  erect  such  a  room,  and  if  he  had  only 
himself  to  think  of  and  care  for,  he  would  do  it. 
He  would,  I  am  sure,  sleep  on  a  chafF-bed,  and  live 
on  bread  and  water,  to  purchase  the  full  enjoyment 
of  music  ;  but  then,  he  is  so  deeply  attached  to  his 
wife,  thinks  so  much  for  her,  and  studies  her  com- 
forts so  earnestly,  that  I  am  sure  he  will  never  do  it. 
o2 


150  THE    OLD    FRIENDS 

He  has  told  me  often,  and  that  with  tears  in  hia 
eyes,  that  it  was  she  who  proposed  and  induced  him 
to  purchase  this  magnificent  instrument,  though  it 
obliged  them  for  ten  years  to  deprive  themselves 
of  their  few  luxuries,  and  to  practise  the  greatest 
economy  and  self-denial.  It  was  during  this  time 
that  I  knew  them  as  a  child,  and  when  they  lived 
without  a  servant.  She  never  complained,  he  hafs 
told  me,  all  that  time,  though,  when  he  saw  her 
hands  becoming  coarse  with  hard  household  work, 
he  felt  many  a  bitter  reproach  on  himself.  She  loves 
music,  however,  as  well  as  her  husband,  and  is  so 
proud  of  his  great  skill,  that  I  am  sure  she  had 
always  her  exceeding  great  reward  ;  but  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  the  contemplation  of  their  virtues,  and 
their  beautiful  unselfish  attachment  to  each  other, 
has  strengthened  and  gladdened  my  heart.  If  my 
aunt  is  not  in  the  room,  my  uncle  seems  not  wholly 
satisfied,  though  seated  at  his  instrument ;  if  the 
door  opens,  he  instantly  looks  round,  for  he  feels 
that  he  yet  fails  of  something,  and  that  is  the  pre- 
sence of  his  wife  :  but  when  she  comes  in,  and  is 
seated  by  him,  he  gives  himself  up  with  undivided 
soul  to  the  full  enthusiasm  of  his  art,  and  plays 
superbly. 

"He  is  not  at  all  satisfied  with  my  playing.  I 
learned,  he  says — and  that  is  true — from  inferior 
masters,  and  my  playing  is  full  of  faults.  I  have 
begun  to  study  industriously  under  him,  and  to  sing 
also  ;  and,  with  such  a  master  to  teach,  and  such  an 
instrument  to  practise  upon,  I  hope  to  make  some- 
thing out. 


AND    THE    OLD    HOME.  151 

"  I  must  relate  to  you  an  anecdote  of  my  uncle,  to 
prove  to  you  how  good  a  man  he  is.  I  told  you,  I 
think,  of  the  misunderstanding  which,  as  a  child, 
1  recollected  to  exist  between  my  uncle  and  the 
organist  of  the  parish  churcli.  He  was  the  only  person 
who  lived  in  strife  with  the  dear  old  man ;  he  was 
of  a  most  violent  temper,  and,  feeling  my  uncle's 
superiority  to  himself  in  music,  regarded  him  always 
ae.a  rival,  and  that  more  especially  after  there  had 
been  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  clergyman,  and 
some  of  the  more  respectable  parishioners,  to  displace 
him  in  favour  of  my  uncle.  But  my  uncle  declined 
to  accept  the  offer,  for  the  organist  was  a  poor  man 
with  a  family,  and  the  office  was  of  consequence  to 
him.  The  organist,  however,  never  gave  him  credit 
for  his  forbearance,  but  lived  on  in  bitter  enmity 
with  him  ;  which  was  a  cause  of  great  regret  to  my 
uncle,  more  particularly  as,  though  the  organist  was 
but  an  indifferent  musician  himself,  his  youngest  son 
exhibited  no  ordinary  talent,  and  was  intended  by  his 
father  to  succeed  him  in  his  office.  My  uncle  was 
greatly  interested  in  the  youth  ;  he  was,  poor  fellow, 
of  a  sickly  constitution,  and  afflicted  with  so  great  a 
weakness  in  his  back  as  to  produce  gradually  a  pain- 
ful deformity.  My  uncle  wished  to  have  given  the 
poor  youth  instruction,  but  the  obstinate  unfriend- 
liness of  the  father  prevented  this.  At  length  the 
organist  fell  sick,  and  lay  on  his  death-bed.  and  then 
my  uncle  went  to  him,  and  besought  that  all  ani- 
mosity might  cease  from  his  mind,  promising  that  he 
would  promote  in  every  possible  way  the  advance- 
ment ani  worldlv  advantage  of  his  afflicted  son.    The 


152  THE   OLD    FRIENDS 

heart  of  the  dying  man  was  touched :  this  was  an 
instance  of  forgiveness  and  Christian  love  which  far 
surpassed  his  belief:  yet,  Avhile  it  affected  him  mtist 
deeply,  it  blessed  and  consoled  his  death-bed.  My 
uncle  saw  him  every  day  till  he  died,  and  his  last 
words  were,  '  May  God  Almighty  be  only  as  merci- 
ful to  me  as  Mr.  Fielding  ! ' 

"  jMy  uncle  fulfilled  his  promise  ,  the  poor  youth 
came  for  a  year  or  two  to  him  daily,  and  evinced 
extraordinary  talent  for  his  art,  while  my  uncle 
became  almost  as  much  attached  to  him  as  if  he  were 
his  son.  At  length,  however,  his  spine  was  affected, 
and  he  could  not  leave  the  house  ;  my  uncle  then 
went  to  him,  and  still  continues  to  do  so  dally,  for 
the  poor  fellow  now  is  in  the  last  stage  of  consump- 
tion, and  cannot  himself  touch  the  instrument,  but 
my  uncle  sits  for  hours  in  his  room,  and  plays  to 
him,  which  is  his  greatest  delight ;  he  will  die,  no 
doubt,  listening  to  his  music.  The  doctor  says  he 
cannot  continue  long,  and  not  a  day,  let  the  weather 
he  what  it  may,  passes  without  my  uncle  visiting  him. 

"  Have  I  not,  my  dear  friend,  reason  to  be  proud 
of  my  dear  old  relatives  ? 

"  You  ask  me  of  the  house  in  which  I  was  born — 
the  old  school-house.  Alas!  it  is  an  altered  place 
now,  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well  it  should  be  so,  for 
had  the  ivy  still  covered  the  end  up  to  the  very 
chimneys,  and  had  the  monthly  roses  and  the  trumpet 
honeysuckle  still  been  trained  up  the  front,  and  the 
sheds  of  auriculas  and  hyacinths  still  stood  down  the 
length  of  the  garden,  it  would  have  reminded  mc 
almost  too  painfully  of  my  parents  ;  but  it  has  ni 


AND    THE    OLD    HOME.  153 

Hook  of  home  about  it  now.  The  schoohnaster,  who 
is  a  fat  man,  and  an  old  bachelor,  fancied  the  ivy 
made  the  house  damp,  and  found  roses  and  honey- 
6uckl(*s  too  much  trouble  to  keep  well  trained,  bo  he 
had  them  all  cleared  away;  the  house  was  new- 
roofed  and  stuccoed,  and  made  as  trim  as  a  new 
building,  with  the  school-house  to  match.  Beside 
all  this,  he  discovered  that  all  those  great  elms  and 
limes  which  grew  round  about  and  in  the  front,  made 
the  school  dark,  so  lie  persuaded  the  parish  to  cut 
down  four  of  them,  and  thus  had  plenty  of  light  both 
winter  and  summer.  Instead  of  prize-flowers,  he 
grows  pink-eyed  potatoes,  the  richest  marrow-fats  in 
the  parish,  and  pumpkins,  which  are  the  wonder  of 
half  the  county,  for  he  loves  good  eating  above  all 
things;  but  he  brings  the  boys  on,  say  all  the  villagers, 
and  the  squire  is  satisfied  with  him,  and  so  is  the 
clergyman,  and  thus  whatever  he  does  is  right.  It 
grieved  me,  however,  to  see  all  these  changes,  and  I 
protested  that  he  was  a  Goth ;  but  he  sent  me  the 
other  day  a  bushel  of  new  potatoes,  and  a  kind  mes- 
sage to  come  whenever  I  liked,  and  see  '  his  improve- 
ments ;'  so  I  think  the  man  has  a  good  heart,  after 
all,  and,  like  everybody  else — I  mean  to  be  satisfied 
with  him. 

"  My  uncle's  income,  as  I  told  you,  is  about  eighty 
pounds  a  year.  I  must  do  something  for  my  own 
maintenance  ;  for,  though  they  begrudge  me  nothing. 
I  cannot  bear  to  encumber  them  in  any  way,  or 
oblige  them  to  deprive  themselves  of  any  comforts 
on  my  account.  Besides  all  this,  as  a  matter  of 
necessary  duty  to  myself,  I   must  keep  my  mind 


164  THE    OLD    FRIENDS 

occupied,  and  that  as  much  as  possible,  with  things 
dieconnected  with  myself.  I  must  have  full  employ- 
ment, and  tliat  of  such  a  character  as,  while  it 
demands  exertion  on  my  part,  leaves  me  no  tune  to 
dwell  on  painful  and  engrossing,  and  at  the  same 
time  enfeebling  subjects.  I  am  not,  my  dearest 
friend,  as  yet  strong  either  in  mind  or  body,  but, 
thank  God,  light  seems  breaking  in  around  me  ;  I 
begin  to  see  what  is  best  for  me,  and  what  it  is  my 
duty  to  do.  I  am  reconciled  to  much  that  at  one 
time  seemed  bitter  to  me  as  death.  I  ajii,  too,  at 
peace  with  myself ;  and  to  have  peace  with  one's  self, 
to  see  clearly  what  is  one's  duty,  and  to  feel  a 
willingness  to  do  it,  is  having  advanced  many  steps 
on  the  riglit  j)ath.  Yes,  my  best  friend,  the  worst  is 
over  noif ;  all  will  in  time  be  right,  and  in  time,  I 
doubt  not,  I  shall  see  that  all  has  been  indeed  for  the 
best.  But,  in  the  meantime,  1  must  find  active  and 
constant  employment,  and  this,  not  only  as  a  duty  to 
myself,  but  to  my  excellent  relations  also. 

"  My  present  idea  is  to  propose  myself  as  daily 
governess  to  J\Irs.  Morton,  the  lady  of  the  squire, 
for  her  two  little  girls.  I  love  children,  and  these 
are  amiable  and  tractable ;  we  are  already  good 
friends,  for  the  squire's  family,  as  well  as  the  clergy- 
man's, have  shown  me  great  kindness ;  and  I  feel 
that  I  could  make  these  children  love  me,  and,  per- 
haps, be  useful  to  them.  Their  mother  is  inquiring 
for  a  governess ;  I  will  go  this  very  day  and  propose 
myself.  AVlien  I  take  up  my  pen  again,  I  will  tell 
you  the  result. 

"  Tke  morrow. — I  went    yesterday  to  the  halli 


AND    THE    OLD    H03IE.  155 

It  is  all  delightfully  settled  ;  but  you  shall  hear. 
I  knew  that  a  governess  was  wanted,  and  therefore 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  proposing  myself,  especially 
as  the  children  are  quite  young,  the  eldest  being  but 
ten.  To  my  great  joy,  I  found  my  proposal  gladly 
accepted.  Mrs.  Morton  expressed  the  greatest  plea- 
sure ;  said  many  flattering  things  to  me,  and  pro- 
posed* to  give  me  five-and-thirty  pounds  a  year, 
which  is  more  than  I  expected.  I  am  to  enter  on 
my  office  immediately.  She  has  heard  me  play,  and, 
being  a  less  severe  critic  than  my  uncle,  commends 
my  playing  greatly.  I  commence  my  duties  at 
9  o'clock  on  Monday  morning.  I  am  to  walk  with 
the  children  from  twelve  to  one  ;  dine  with  them  at 
one ;  walk  again  with  them  for  an  hour  in  the  after- 
noon, if  the  weather  is  fine  ;  and  Avhatever  I  am 
required  to  teach  as  yet,  I  understand  tolerably  well. 
At  six  o'clock  I  return  home  for  the  evening.  I 
shall  thus  have  several  hours  each  day  to  spend 
with  my  uncle  and  aunt,  and  to  practise  music 
under  my  uncle's  eye.  My  greatest  pleasure  is,  that 
both  my  uncle  and  aunt  entirely  approve  of  this 
arrangement  which  I  have  made ;  they  enter  into 
my  motives  as  regards  themselves,  and  were  not 
only  satisfied,  but  really  affected  by  it.  Their  kind- 
ness to  me  is  indescribable ;  were  they  my  •wn 
parents,  they  could  not  show  me  more  affection.  In 
many  respects,  they  remind  me  of  my  parents  ;  in 
their  attachment  to  each  other,  for  instance,  as  well 
as  in  simplicity  of  character,  and  in  uprightness  and 
purity  of  mind. 

''  What  a  blessing  is  it,  my  dear  friend,  to   be 


166  THE    OLD    FRIENDS 

descended  from,  and  connected  with,  worthy  people  ; 
people  of  whom  one  is  proud,  and  with  whom  all 
that  is  good  in  one  feels  to  be  allied  ! 

"  A  week  later. — My  letter  is  becoming  a  journal; 
but  I  have  strange  things  to  tell  you. 

"  I  was  sitting  two  evenings  ago  at  the  piano, 
playing  a  beautiful  sonata  of  Mozart's.  My  uncle 
said  I  played  remarkably  well,  and  I  was  unusually 
cheerful,  for  I  had  had  a  happy  day  with  the  chil- 
dren. The  door  opened,  and  our  little  maid-servant 
announced — a  gentleman.  Why,  dear  Mrs.  Mor- 
land,  did  I  feel  ready  to  faint  ?  God  forgive  me  !  I 
thought — but  will  not  say  of  whom — and  felt  dizzy. 
It  was  Mr.  Sopworth  !  Never  was  there  a  more 
awkward  and  constrained  meeting.  I  thought  of 
Barbara  Pocklington  ;  and  I  wondered  why  he  was 
there.  He  sate,  and  we  were  all  silent,  for  my 
uncle,  it  seems,  had  seen  him  before  at  W — ,  and 
had  not  liked  hhn.  I,  for  my  part,  felt  as  if  I  could 
not  talk  ;  I  did  not  even  ask  him  how  you  were. 
My  aunt,  who  is  the  very  soul  of  hospitality,  and 
has  a  deal  of  natural  politeness,  did,  as  she  said, 
double  duty  for  us  both.  I  never  saw  her  so  civil 
tp  anybody  before ;  she  talked  of  a  hundred  things, 
and  asked  a  hundred  questions,  to  all  of  which  he 
gave  short  and  broken  answers. 

"  '  Let  us  have  some  more  music,*  at  length  said 
ray  uncle,  and  then  bade  me  play  that  sonata  over 
again. 

"  Anything  was  better  than  that  constrained 
silence  in  which  we  sate  ;  so,  though  my  heart  beat 
almost  audibly,  I  yate  down  and  played.     The  mag- 


AND    THE    OLD    IIOMK.  157 

nificent  instrument  poured  forth  its  volume  ol  .soimd, 
and  my  uncle  again  greatly  commended  my  playing. 
Mr.  Sopworth  rose  the  moment  I  had  ended,  and 
begged,  in  a  low  voice,  that,  if  it  were  not  convenient 
to  be  alone  with  me  that  evening,  I  would  grant 
him  an  opportunity  in  the  morning.  '  I  can  see  you 
but  from  eight  to  nine,'  said  I,  with  greater  calm- 
ness than  [  thought  myself  capable ;  for,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  I  felt  there  was  no  danger  now  of  hia 
troubling  my  peace  of  mind. 

"  My  uncle  and  aunt  were  greatly  disturbed  by 
his  visit ;  tliey,  of  course,  believed  him  to  be  a  lover ; 
and  my  uncle,  who,  as  I  said  before,  had  seen  him 
at  W — ,  began  an  earnest  persuasion  against  him. 
They  could  not  bear  the  thoughts  of  losing  me  ;  and 
neither  of  them  were  at  all  favourably  impressed 
towards  him. 

"  But  you  shall  hear  of  our  interview.  I  was  not,  I 
assure  you,  by  any  means  so  calm  when  we  met  again; 
my  heart  beat  violently,  a  strange  choking  sensation 
made  me  feel  as  if  I  could  not  speak,  and,  catching  a 
glimpse  of  myself  in  the  glass,  I  saw  that  I  was 
deadly  pale.  I  suppose  all  these  seemed  to  him 
favourable  signs,  for  he  began,  almost  confidently,  to 
pour  forth  the  most  passionate  avowal  of  love. 
Whilst  he  spoke  I  grew  composed,  and  hi  a  vein 
w^hose  calmness  quite  astonished  me  I  replied  : — 

"  '  This  time  last  year,  or  even  six  months  a^o, 
I  might  have  listened  to  all  this,  and  have  believed 
it ;  and,  if  you  then  loved  me  as  you  say,  why  waa 
such  a  declaration  withheld  1  I  was  Chen  extremely 
unhappy,  wanted  friends,  wanted  protectors,  Avanted 
r 


158  THE    OLD    FRIENDS 

even  a  home  ;  my  melancholy  circumstances  were 
well  known  to  you,  for,  in  my  misery,  1  in  part 
unfolded  them  to  you.  Then  was  the  time  to  have 
made  offers  of  affection ;  and,  had  you  done  so  then, 
I  should  almost  have  regarded  you  as  an  angel  seat 
from  heaven  ! ' 

•'  He  protested,  he  wept :  and,  oh  Heavens  I  there 
are  men  whose  weeping  steels  one's  h^avt  against 
them.  I  felt  almost  indignant,  and  continued — 
'  You  are  accountable,  Mr.  Mark,  to  your  own  con- 
science, and  to  God,  for  your  actions;  but  neverthe- 
less, I  demand  from  you,  how  you  dare  offer  vows  to 
me,  while  you  have  already  plighted  them  to  another 
— to  Barbara  Pocklington  !' 

"  He  shrunk  back  as  if  a  serpent  had  stung  him, 
and  then  vehemently  protested  that  he  loved  me  far 
better  than  her ;  that  he  had  alwaj-s  done  so,  that  the 
happiness  of  his  life  depended  upon  me,  and  that 
nothing  but  obedience  to  his  father's  will  would  have 
induced  him  to  address  her.  He  seemed  aln\ost 
beside  himself,  and  besought  for  my  love  and  my 
esteem. 

"  '  Time,  and  sickness,  and  knowledge  of  good  and 
noble  hearts,'  returned  I,  '  have  made  me  see  many 
things  in  a  very  different  light  to  what  I  did  when 
-we  were  Acquainted — in  a  very  different  light  to  that 
in  which  you  see  them.  Love  I  can  never  give  you ; 
the  time  for  that  is,  thank  God,  long  past ;  and  if  my 
esteem  be  of  value  to  you,  you  should  never  have 
presented  yourself  thus,  with  broken  vows  on  your 
lips,  and  falsehood  to  poor  Barbara  in  your  heart !' 

"  I  was  angry,  and  said  many  bitter  things.    I  only 


AND    THE    OLD    H031E.  ]£9 

wonder  he  was  not  offended ;  but  instead  of  tliar— 
which  to  my  mind  would,  at  Teast,  have  been  manly, , 
he  crouched  like  a  beaten  hound,  and  talked  still  of 
his  love,  and  his  broken  heart.  I  was  ashamed  for 
him,  and  despised  myself  for  having  loved  such  a 
creature,  especially  as  he  said  he  had  never  had  the 
courage  to  avow  his  love  to  me,  and  that  his  father 
compelled  him  to  make  love  to  Barbara  against  his 
own  wishes. 

'•  '  Say  not  another  word,'  said  I,  rising,  '  for  a 
man  that  has  not  the  heart  to  declare  his  love,  does 
not  deserve  to  have  it  returned  ;  and  he  who  could 
avow  love  to  a  girl,  whilst  that  love  is  a  lie  to  his 
own  heart,  is  a  despicable  creature  !  You  have  signed 
your  own  death-warrant ;  and  the  very  least  that  you 
can  do — if  there  be  the  soul  of  a  man  in  you — is  to 
bear  your  punishment  patiently.  You  have  much  to 
atone  for  to  Barbara,  in  having  thus  deceived  her ! 
Return  home,  and  endeavour  to  keep,  if  not  to  deserve, 
h^r  love  ! ' 

'*■  He  left  me.  Thank  Heaven  !  if  my  love  were 
not  cured  before,  it  is  perfectly  cured  now.  This 
scene,  however,  has  not  been  without  its  effects  upon 
me.  I  am  again  suffering  from  headache,  and  my 
mind  is  not  as  calm,  to  perform  its  daily  duties,  as  it 
ought  to  be. 

''  I  feel  out  of  spirits,  and  the  sense,  how  :very  little 
we  are  fit  to  be  the  arbiters  of  our  own  destiny, 
weighs  heavily  upon  me.  I  have  lost  somewhat  of 
my  own  self-respect ;  for,  only  a  few  months  since, 
and  this  was  the  man  to  whom  I  would  have  united 
myself!      I  will   not,   in  future,  set   my   mind  on 


160  THE    OLD    FRIENDS 

anything.  A  good  Providence  disposes  all  things 
fright ;  I  will  put  myself  in  His  hands,  and  leave  all 
to  him. 

"  May  God  Almighty  bless  you !  Your  letters 
always  do  me  good,  and  no  one  sympathises  so  much 
in  your  happiness  and  success,  as  your  affectionate 
and  grateful  "  Mary  Wheeler." 

Sopworth  went  home.  No  one,  of  course,  knew 
whither  his  journey  had  been  directed,  or  what  had 
been  the  object  of  it.  The  news,  however,  which 
greeted  him  on  his  return  was,  that  old  Mrs.  Pockling- 
ton  was  ill,  and  that  the  family  was  in  the  greatest 
distress.  He  felt  ill  himself;  and,  if  he  might  have 
followed  the  dictates  of  his  own  feelings,  he  would 
have  taken  to  his  bed,  and  seen  no  human  being; 
but  his  sister  hurried  him  to  the  home  of  his  bride 
elect,  and,  poor  weak  young  man,  it  was  no  little 
consolation  to  him,  that  the  agitation  which  was 
painted  on  his  countenance  might  be  mistaken,  by 
the  Pocklington  family,  for  anxiety  on  their  account, 
and  natural  sympathy  with  them. 

Not  a  little  surprised,  of  course,  was  jMrs.  Mor- 
land  by  the  contents  of  Mary's  letter,  but  she 
breathed  not  a  syllable  of  it  to  any  one.  It  was  not 
long,  however,  before  a  gossipping  lady,  who  called 
upon  her,  asked  her  if  she  had  heard  that  the  affair 
was  all  at  an  end  between  Mark  Sopworth  and 
Barbara  Pocklington.  Nobody,  she  said,  justly  knew 
why  ;  the  mother  was  very  ill — the  family  in  great 
distress,  for  she  was  both  a  good  wife  and  good 
mother ;  and  that  altogether,  just  at  this  time,  it  wai 


AND    THE    OLD    HOME.  161 

quite  a  shockins;  thin-^.  It  was,  indeed,  very  strange, 
she  continued,  for  the  house  was  nearly  ready ;  wed- 
ding-clothes were  bought;  and,  as  everybody  knew, 
the  marriage  was  to  take  place  at  Midsummer. 
Eveiybody,  she  said,  was  talking  about  it,  but  nobody 
could  at  all  understand  it! 

So  said  rumour.  In  two  weeks'  time  poor  Mrs. 
Pocklington  died,  and  the  wedding  could  not  now  take 
place  for  the  present,  had  the  lovers  been  ever  so  am- 
icable; but,  strange  to  say,  old  Sopworth  was  at  Mrs. 
Pocklington's  funeral — Mark  was  not,  because  he  was 
said  to  be  ill,  and  confined  to  his  bed  ;  but  when  he 
was  next  seen  in  public,  he  was  wearing  mourning. 
"Oh,"  said  rumour  then,  "there  must  have  been 
nothing  in  the  quaiTel — Lizzy  Sopworth  was  staying 
with  Barbara  Pocklington,  and  the  two  families  we're 
as  friendly  as  ever;  there  must  have  been  nothing  in 
it ;  or  if  there  were,  it  was  only  some  trifling  lovers' 
quarrel  or  other;  but  at  a  time  like  this,  when  the 
family  was  in  such  distress,  all  quarrels  would  be  sure 
to  be  made  up. 

Mrs.  3IorIand  said  nothing ;  she  had  no  doubt 
whatever  but  that  suspicion,  if  nothing  more,  of 
Mark's  faithlessness  had  reached  the  Pocklingtons, 
which  had  occasioned  a  quarrel,  and  perhaps  might 
have  led  to  a  total  breach,  had  not  that  family  sorrow 
softened  and  knit  together  all  hearts,  or  had  not 
Mark  himself,  perhaps,  discovered  some  means  of 
making  his  peace  with  them  all. 

P2 


162 


CHAPTER  XII. 

all's  well  that  ends  well. 

The  summer  wore  cheerfully  away.  Nothing 
could  have  succeeded  better  than  dear  Mrs.  Mor- 
land's  management  of  her  business.  By  Midsummer 
the  superior  quality  of  the  articles  she  manufactured 
was  acknowledged  everywhere.  Her  husband,  who 
had  been  twice  at  home  for  a  whole  week  each  time, 
declared  that  there  was  not  a  woman  equal  to  her  in 
all  England,  and  that  he  grew  more  and  more  in  love 
with  her  every  day.  The  one  pleasure  which  he  had 
in  life,  he  said,  was  the  thought  of  the  visit  once  a 
quarter  which  he  should  pay  her ;  and  the  one  sorrow 
was,  that  once  a  quarter  he  had  to  part  from  her. 
He  did  not  buy  nearly  so  many  clothes  for  himself 
as  formerly,  although  he  appeared  in  new  waistcoats 
each  time  he  came  ;  the  one  expense,  however,  which 
she  had  now  to  complain  against  was  that  of  pur- 
chasing little  presents  for  her.  She  tried  to  scold, 
but  nsver  was  woman  more  pleased  and  flattered  by 
presents  than  she  was  by  his. 

"  What  a  lovely  ring  that  is  which  you  are 
wearing,"  said  somebody  to  her  one  day. 

"  It  is  lovely,"  said  she,  "  but  its  greatest  beauty 
in  my  eyes  is,  that  my  husband  gave  it  to  me." 

Mrs.  Morland  wrote  to  her  uncle,  and  told  him 
how  successful  she  was  in  the  business,  and  how 


all's  well  that  ends  well.  1C3 

happy  she  was  besides  as  a  wife.  She  told  him  that 
she  should  pay  a  hundred  pounds  of"  the  borrowed 
money  at  Christmas ;  and  at  Christmas,  she  could  not 
help  telling  him,  that  her  husband  would  spend  a 
whole  fortnight  with  her,  instead  of  a  week  ;  but  she 
did  not  tell  him,  because  she  did  not  know,  that  he 
would  then  bring  with  him  a  hundred  pounds  which 
he,  too,  should  have  saved  ;  she  did  not  tell  him  this, 
because  this  was  her  husband's  secret  with  himself 
— it  was  to  be  his  Christmas  present  to  her. 

A  happier  woman  than  Mrs.  Morlarid  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  find  ;  a  better  one,  impossible. 
So  her  husband  said  every  day  of  his  life,  never 
omitting  to  add,  "  and  that  for  the  life  of  him  he 
never  could  tell  how  she  ever  came  to  marry  a  good- 
for-nothing  dog  like  him  ! " 

It  was  now  August,  and  we  must  present  our 
readers  with  a  letter  from  Mary  Wheeler  to  Mrs. 
Morland,  written  at  two  diflferent  dates. 

'•August  5th. 

"  All  goes  on  well  with  me  here.  •  My  little  pupila 
love  me,  and  that  is  a  great  happiness  ;  they  make 
progress,  too,  and  that  pleases  their  parents,  and 
keeps  them  in  good  humour  with  me.  I  find  teaching 
agreeable,  for  the  children  learn  readily,  and  1  under- 
stand thoroughly  what  I  have  to  teach. 

"  I  begin  to  find  that  I  make  rapid  advances  in 
music ;  I  understand  and  feel  it  much  more  than  I 
used  to  do,  and  my  uncle's  encouragement  and  praise 
makes  me  happy. 

"  I  must  write  to  you  again,  of  these  dear  old 


164  all's  well 

people,  and  I  thank  you  for  encouraging  me  to  do 
so,  for  every  day  unfolds  some  beautiful  and  amiable 
trait  of  character  in  them.  I  never  could  have  ima- 
gined anything  so  perfect  as  the  union  of  soul 
between  them.  She  adores  her  husband,  and  with- 
out being  slavishly  imitative,  she  has  adopted  all  his 
tastes  and  opinions,  till  they  have  come  to  harmonise 
together,  like  a  fine  accord  in  music.  Their  life  has 
been  without  any  great  events,  as  calm  as  unrufifled 
water ;  but  the  living  soul  w  ithin  them  has  kept  it 
from  stagnation.  Never  regret,  my  dear  friend,  for 
yourself,  that  you  are  without  family,  or  imagine 
that  married  life,  under  such  circumstances,  cannot 
be  perfectly  hap])y ;  my  uncle  and  aunt  had  never 
children  ;  they  married  young,  and  have  lived  toge- 
ther fifty  years, — half  a  century  of  unbroken  felicity, 
— what  can  human  beings  expect  more  ? 

"  My  uncle  was  a  teacher  of  music ;  but  his  health, 
■which  suffered  from  confinement  in  a  close  town, 
induced  them  to  retire  to  this  village,  where  they 
hired  a  couple  of  rooms  in  the  very  house  they  now 
occupy,  and  hoped  for  the  re-establishment  of  his 
health.  This  country  life  suited  them  both  admir- 
ably ;  and  a  legacy  which  was  left  them  of  a  small 
funded  property,-  producing  about  eighty  pounds 
a  year,  decided  them  upon  settling  down  here  for 
life.  The  occupant  of  the  house,  in  the  course  of  a 
few  years,  died,  and  they  became  its  sole  tenants, 
with  no  fear  of  ever  being  disturbed,  because  they 
had  the  good  friendly  squire,  the  father  of  the 
present  one,  for  their  landlord. 

"  The  quiet  and  respectable  life  which  they  led,  , 


THAT    ENDS    WELL.  165 

together  with  his  extraordinary  talent  for  music, 
made  him  imiversally  esteemed,  and  even  courted ; 
the  squire's  family,  and  the  clergyman's,  hcive  always 
been  his  fast  friends,  and  it  was  tlirough  his  influ- 
ence with  them,  that  my  father  was  appointed  school- 
master here.  But  this  reminds  me  that  I  have  not 
yet  told  you  how  many  proofs  I  have  had  of  the 
esteem  in  which  my  parents  were  held.  In  one 
cottage,  I  was  shown  a  black  profile  likeness  of  my 
father,  which  was  framed,  and  hung  on  the  wall, 
and  I  was  assured  that  nothing  would  induce  them  to 
part  with  it ;  and  many  a  cottager  and  farmer  has 
brought  me  little  presents,  because  I  was  the  daughter 
of  my  parents.  I  wish  you  could  see  the  stand  of 
hot-house  plants,  which  one  poor  young  man,  a  gar- 
dener, and  a  favourite  pupil  of  my  father's,  brought 
me.  With  your  love  of  flowers,  you  would  be 
almost  envious  of  them  ;  they  stand  in  a  sunny  win- 
dow of  the  parlour,  and,  together  with  the  piano, 
give  an  air  of  beauty,  and  a  character  of  mind  to  the 
humble  apartment. 

"  My  uncle  and  aunt  say,  that  I  add  greatly  to 
their  happiness ;  they  lavish  the  greatest  kindness 
upon  me,  and  humour  me  like  a  child ;  yet,  at  the 
same  time,  my  uncle  pays  me  thd  greatest  of  all 
compliments,  by  consulting  my  taste  and  understand- 
ing. What  a  happiness  it  will  be  to  have  Ned  here  ! 
I  often  talk  of  him,  and  his  coming  here,  to  the  dear 
old  people ;  but  they  seem  to  think  that  they  shall 
never  like  him  as  they  like  me  :  that  distresses  me 
no  little;  but  I  am  sure  they  will,  and  that  again 
consoles  me. 


166  all's  well 

*'  ]\Iy  uncle  is  very  particular  about  female  dress. 
I  told  you  once  how  exquisitely  neat  my  aunt  always 
was  ;  she  is  still  more  so,  now  that  she  has  a  ser- 
vant, and,  for  an  old  person,  dresses  with  a  great 
deal  of  feeling,  if  I  may  use  such  an  expression. 
My  uncle  likes  best  to  see  me  in  wliite,  and  I  would 
wear  it  always,  as  I  too  think  it  becoming,  were 
it  not  for  the  washing;  but,  as  my  aunt  pays  for 
the  getting  up  of  my  dresses  out  of  the  house,  I  am 
extremely  careful.  Every  Sunday,  however,  while 
the  weather  is  so  fine,  I  put  on  a  clean  frock,  and 
you  may  fancy  me,  if  you  will,  in  sucli  a  dress,  a 
black  silk  scarf,  the  present  of  my  aunt,  and  a  white 
chip  bonnet,  plainly  trimmed,  and  with  pink  roses 
inside, — a  dress  which  pleases  both  myself  and  my 
uncle  ;  see  me  then,  thus  apparelled,  walking  out 
with  the  two  dear  old  people,  on  these  fine  evenings, 
or  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  ;  my  aunt  leaning  on  his 
arm ;  she  rather  handsomely  dressed  in  black  silk ; 
the  least  in  the  world  vain,  dear  old  soul !  of  a  foot 
and  hand  remarkably  small  and  well  made,  and 
which  are  always  well  gloved  and  well  shod.  See 
us  walking  up  the  village,  and  here  a  cottager  runs 
out  with  a  little  nosegay  of  flowers  for  us,  and  there, 
a  little  girl  courtesys  to  us  as  we  pass ;  and  now,  the 
clergyman's  servant  is  sent  out  to  invite  us  in  to  eat 
a  little  fruit,  which  shall  be  freshly  gathered  for  us ; 
and  now,  one  farmer's  wife  begs  us  to  come  in  and 
take  tea,  and  another,  to  eat  a  syllabub  fresh  from 
the  cow ;  and  thus,  wherever  we  turn,  we  find 
ft'iends  and  kindness.  The  fat  schoolmaster  has 
to-day  sent  us  a  present  of  vegetable  marrows ;  and 


THAT   ENDS   WELL.  10? 

yesterday,  a  poor  cottager,  who  lias  a  remarkahly 
fiue  peach-tree,  the  fruit  of  which  he  sends  to  the 
town  to  sell,  sent  us  a  dozen  peaches  in  a  little 
basket,  hv  his  two  youngest  children.  The  children 
were  pretty,  and  were  dressed  as  carefully  for  the 
occasion  as  if  they  had  been  going  to  the  squire's 
instead.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  this  little  proof  of 
regard  pleased  and  affected  me.  I  did  not  give  the 
children  money,  for  that  would  have  been  like 
stripping  the  gift  of  its  charm  ;  but  1  kissed  the 
children,  and  my  aunt  crammed-  into  their  hands, 
each  a  great  hunch  of  seed-cake,  for  which  she  is 
as  famous  now  as  when  we  were  children ;  and  I, 
who  took  also  the  measure  of  the  children  in  my  eye, 
will  malce  each  of  them  a  warm  winter  frock,  out  of 
my  old  blue  merino. 

"  1  have  this  moment  received  your  letter,  and 
what  you  say  of  my  poor  uncle  Oawley  almost 
reproaches  me  for  thinking  so  much  of  my  own 
happiness.  I  am  really  distressed  for  him  ;  I 
thought  his  bankruptcy  would  have  delivered  him 
from  a  jail.  Alas  !  to  be  'sick  and  in  prison  ! '  that 
is  mentioned  in  the  Gospel  as  one  of  the  most  grievous 
atflictions  of  human  nature.  I  have  two  guineas 
which  I  will  send  him,  if  you  will  undertake  to  let 
them  reach  his  hands ;  by  the  first  opportunity  I 
will  send  tiiein  to  you,  but  in  the  meantime,  lose  no 
time  in  relieving  him.  Do  not  say  that  they  come 
from  me ;  I  dare  not  establish  any  claim  upon  me, 
for  1  may  not  always  have  it  in  my  power  to  help 
him  ;  say  that  they  come  from  one  who  wishcg 
him  well. 


168  ALLS  WELL 

''August  30. 

"  I  take  up  my  pen  again,  but  I  am  hardly  in  a 
state  to  write.  I  am  happy — indescribably  happy 
— happy  beyond  the  power  of  words  to  express. 
Last  night,  when  I  ^vas  alone  in  my  chamber,  I  fell 
on  my  knees,  and  would  have  blessed  God,  but 
I  had  no  words ;  I  laid  my  face  on  my  hands  and 
wept,  and  the  Almighty,  who  can  read  all  hearts, 
saw  what  was  in  mine.  But  I  must  not  longer  keep 
you  in  suspense ;  and  yet  I  must  be  circumstantial. 

"  Listen,  then  : — After  tea  last  evening,  instead  of 
allowing  me  to  sit  down  to  my  music  during  day- 
light, my  aunt  insisted  upon  my  taking  a  walk. 
My  uncle  was  gone  up  to  the  other  end  of  the 
village,  to  the  house  of  the  organist,  to  play  to  that 
poor  youth  of  whom  I  told  you  before.  He  had 
been  gone  a  couple  of  hours,  and  my  aunt  thought 
that  if  I  walked  in  that  direction  I  should  meet  him, 
and  thus  we  two  might  take  a  walk  together.  It 
was  Monday,  and  I  had  my  Sunday  dress  on.  The 
evening  was  heavenly,  warm  and  bright,  and  some 
way  or  other  I  felt  a  more  than  ordinary  pleasure  in 
all  around  me,  and,  I  know  not  why,  dressed  myself 
with  particular  care — never  thinking  what  was  about 
to  happen  !  But  I  will  not  proceed  too  fast.  I  have 
a  pleasure  in  dwelling  on  every  little  circumstance  of 
that  happy  evening. 

"  One  of  the  little  children  who  brought  us  the 
present  of  the  peaches,  was  going  up  the  village  with 
a  basket  on  her  arm  ;  she  was  as  neat  and  clean  as 
when  she  came  to  us,  and  I  thought  she  was  going 
to  the  rector's,  or  perhaps  to  the  squire's. 


THAT    ENDS    WELL.  169 

'''And  where  are  you  going,  Patty?'  said  1. 

"  She  -looked  up  at  me  so  good  and  happy,  and 
lifted  the  lid  of  her  basket ;  there  was  a  little  cake 
in  it,  and  a  pair  X)f  new  Avoollen  stockings.  '  I 
am  taking  the  cake  to  granny,'  said  she ;  '  mother 
has  baked  to-day,  and  Jane'  (that  was  her  eldest 
sister,  out  at  service),  '  has  sent  granny  this  pair  of 
stockings  that  she  has  knit  herself;  so  I  am  going  to 
her  with  them  ! ' 

"  It  was  quite  a  happiness  to  me  to  hear  of  so 
much  family  affection  and  good  will ;  my  heart 
blessed  them  all,  and  I  gave  the  little  girl  a  sixpence 
for  herself.  She  looked  as  happy  as  I  myself  felt, 
and  trudged  on  before  me  almost  conceitedly,  with  a 
pair  of  stiff  little  legs  in  black  worsted  stockings,  that 
some  way  or  other  quite  charmed  me. 

"  "^Then  I  reached  the  organist's,  my  uncle  was  not 
there ;  he  had  been  gone  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  as 
nobody  could  tell  me  exactly  in  which  direction  he 
had  gone,  and  the  evening  was  so  lovely,  1  deter- 
mined to  go  onward  to  the  cottage  of  the  old  grand- 
mother, and  see  if  she  were  not  greatly  pleased  with 
the  presents  which  the  little  child  had  brought  her. 
It  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  further  to  her  cottage, 
along  one  of  the  loveliest  lanes  you  can  imagine  ;  the 
fields  were  full  of  harvesters  cutting  the  corn,  who  were 
laughing  and  singing  as  I  went  along ;  the  sound  of 
ringing  bells  came  on  the  air  from  a  not  far-off  village; 
the  evening  sunshine  cast  a  glow  over  everything,  like 
burnished  gold  ;  a  foreboding  of  happiness  filled  my 
heart,  and,  saying  to  myself  that  there  was  far  moro 
good  than  evil  in  life  after  all,  I  ^^  ent  onward.  The 
Q 


170 


ALL^S   WELL 


old  grandmother  had  put  on  her  new  stockings  when 
I  got  there,  and  was  delighted  to  liave  somebody  to 
show  them  to,  and  was  aUogether  as  full  of  satisfac- 
tion as  I  was  myself.  I  had  another  sixpence  in  my 
pocket,  and  gave  it  to  her — in  return  for  which  she 
made  me  up  a  nosegay  of  stoclcs  and  china-asters ; 
and,  well  pleased  with  my  little  visit,  as  you  may 
believe,  I  set  out  again  on  my  homeward  way. 

"  Just  as  I  reached  the  top  of  the  village,  I  sawr 
before  me,  coming  towards  me,  and  at  about  a  hun- 
dred yards  distance — now  I  wish  I  could  keep  you 
waiting  before  I  tell  you  who  I  saw  ;  for,  happy  as  I 
am,  I  have  a  pleasure  in  toying,  as  it  were,  with  my 
happiness — I  saw  Dr.  Wentworth  coming  towards 
me,  and  looking  as  if  he  rejoiced  in  this  meeting. 

"  I  don't  know  really  what  he  said,  or  how  I  came 
to  understand  and  believe  that  he  was  come  purposely 
to  Morton  to  see  me — that  he  had  seen  both  my  uncle 
and  aunt,  and  had  set  out  wilfully  alone  to  meet  me, 
and  that  I  must  take  his  arm,  and  walk  with  him, 
and  listen  to  what  he  had  to  say. 

"  What  he  said  exactly  1  really  do  not  know;  I 
only  know  that  after  the  sun  had  set  and  the  full 
moon  had  risen,  we  were  both  standing  together, 
leaning  against  a  gravestone  in  the  churchyard — the 
gravestone  of  my  father  and  mother — and  that  never 
in  this  world  did  human  being  feel  happier  than  I 
did.  I  could  say  nothing,  however ;  I  could  only 
veish  that  I  could  kneel  down  and  bless  the  Almighty 
Father  for  his  goodness  to  me.  I  thought  of  my 
parents,  who  had  lived  so  in  love  together,  and  were 
now  sleeping  below  that  turf  side  by  side ;  my  hand 


THAT    ENDS    WELL.  l7l 

was  clasped  in  that  of  the  man  whom,  above  all  others, 
f  honoured  and  esteemed  in  this  world.  He  was 
talking  to  me  ;  but  though  his  voice  was  like  music 
in  my  ears,  I  know  not  exactly  what  he  said,  except- 
ing that  he  spoke  of  love — eternal  love  ! 

*'  The  purple  light  of  evening  had  quite  died  away, 
and  the  moon  shone  brilliantly  in  the  cloudless  heaven, 
as,  leaning  on  his  arm,  we  walked  slowly  homeward. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  cup  of  my  earthly  felicity 
were  brimming  full,  and  I  feared  to  breathe  almost, 
lest  it  should  run  over.  I  Avas  so  full  of  happiness, 
that  I  could  not  say  one  word,  but  felt  subdued  and 
still ;  he,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  almost  wild — nor 
could  I  have  thought  it  possible  that  he  could  be  so 
much  excited. 

"  I  called  him  Dr.  Wentworth  ;  he  told  me  never 
to  call  him  so  again,  but  Herbert,  which  was  his 
Christian  name. 

'•  '  Herbert  Wentworth,'  repeated  I  to  myself,  '  it 
is  a  beautiful  name  !'  but,  like  all  that  belongs  to  him, 
it  is  superior  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  Tell  me, 
dearest  friend,  is  it  not  so  ? 

'•  When  we  got  home  wc  found  my  uncle  and  aunt 
ready  to  receive  us.  Dear  old  people  !  they  never 
for  one  moment  imagined  what  Avas  his  errand ;  but 
for  all  that,  my  aunt  had  got  supper  ready,  all  so 
neatly  set  out ;  her  best  tal)le-cloth  on  her  table,  and 
a  bottle  of  her  best  wine  on  it  too.  My  uncle  had 
opened  his  music-book  at  his  favourite  piece,  by 
Beethoven,  which  he  meant  to  play  that  evening  to 
the  Doctor.  I  went  into  my  own  room  to  take  off  my 
things,  and  when  I    returned,  my   uucle  and  aunt 


172 


ALLS   WELL 


came  forward,  each  seizing  a  hand  of  mine,,  and 
kissing  me  tenderly,  for  Dr.  Wentworth  had  told 
them  all. 

"  I  never  was  so  silent  in  my  life.  I  thought  I  must 
be  stupid  not  to  talk,  but  that  overpowering  happi- 
ness had  chained  my  tongue. 

*'  '  Well,  if  she  will  not  talk,'  said  my  uncle  quite 
merrily,  '  she  must  play  to  us  ;  she  can  play  very 
tolerably.  Dr.  Wentworth,'  said  he,  laying  aside  the 
Beethoven,  and  opening  at  that  sonata  of  Mozart's, 
which  he  reckoned  my  masterpiece.  ,  :■  |  , 

"  I  played  ;  Dr.  Wentworth  turned  over  iflbe; pages 
of  my  music-book ;  but  oh  !  never  did  I'  play  so 
badly  in  all  my  life  before.  My  uncle  grew  almost 
angry,  and  seating  himself  at  the  piano,  played 
magnificently.  Our  little  parlour  reverberated  the 
almost  deafening  sounds,  for  my  uncle  was  doing  his 
grandest ;  my  aunt  was  enchanted  with  his  perform- 
ance, and  we  two  sat  side  by  side  on  the  little  sofa 
his  arm  round  my  waist,  and  my  head  resting  upon 
his  bosom. 

"  Congratulate  me  now,  for  am  I  not  happy — am 
I  not  fortunate  ?  Oh,  Almighty  Father,  how  can  1 
have  deserved  such  unspeakable  happiness ! 

"  I  have,  my  dear  friend,  %viitten  this  long  letter 
during  his  absence  for  a  few  hours  to  visit  a  college 
friend  of  his  some  few  miles  off.  I  have  begged  for 
myself  a  holiday  for  to-day.  This  evening  he 
returns,  and  to-morrow  he  leaves  us. 

"  Many  things  seem  strange,  and  yet  not  incompre- 
hensible to  me  either.  When  in  the  early  year,  Dr. 
^Ventworth  proposed  to  me  first,  how  astonished  I 


THAT    ENDS   WELL.  173 

was !  my  foolish  heart  was  then  unworthily  pre- 
occupied. I  was  rudely  shaken  out  of  that  dream, 
and  passed  through  a  baptism  both  deep  and  painful : 
but  if  I  suffered,  I  acquired  knowledge  cheaply 
bought  by  suffering — knowledge  of  myself,  and  a 
truer  estimate  of  others.  In  the  six  ensuing  months, 
I  had  become,  I  trust,  worthier  of  my  destiny  ;  I 
understood  and  appreciated  more  thoroughly  a  cha- 
racter and  virtues  like  those  of  Dr.Wentworth.  Love 
for  him  I  certainly  did  not  cherish,  because  I  had  no 
hope ;  but  excellence  like  his  seemed  to  be  that  after 
which  I  was  striving;  and  thus,  when  we  now  met, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  we^had  been  in  constant  com- 
munion ever  since.  He  seemed  to  me  like  an  old 
friend  whom  I  knew  intimately,  and  I  could  have  no 
reserves  with  him.  I  have  opened  my  whole  heart 
to  him,  for  I  desire  to  conceal  nothing,  and  in  him  1 
have  confidence  the  most  undoubting. 

"  People  talk  of  happiness  bemg  extatic  ;  to  me  it  ia 
a  still  and  inward  feeling.  I  have  all  I  wish  for,  and 
I  do  not  fear  change.  The  reality  of  heaven  must  be 
like  this ! 

"  He  is  returned  ;  farewell,  dearest  friend  !  He  will 
take  this  with  him.  I  enclose,  too,  the  two  guineas 
for  my  uncle.    Once  again,  farewell ! 

"  M.  wr 

THE  END. 


4 


y€S8   1JBRARY 
^-535^3 


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i||lj{i|iip|lift 

B     000  007  872     5       _ 


